


Stone Lions and Paper Tigers

by bearfeathers



Series: gotta fix the shit vaughn broke like goddamn [3]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, M/M, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: "We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over."- Ray Bradbury





	1. do not stand at my grave and weep (Harry)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/gifts).



[THE AMAZON RAINFOREST, BRAZIL: 1995]

 

"A labratory in the middle of the bloody rainforest," Tristan grouses behind him.

 

Martin has half a mind to hush him, but he can't help but agree. Here the two of them are, sweating bullets inside their tactical gear and wading through wave after wave of guards like some never ending ocean. But this is where Merlin had extrapolated Harry's location to be and, frankly, Merlin's really almost never wrong.

 

Not to mention just happening to stumble on a secret lab in the middle of the Amazon rainforest gives him the impression that they're right when they need to be.

 

Tristan, Martin has found, is a touch more reliable than the rest of the Kingsman lot. Harry's his pick for the best in show, but Tristan will do in a pinch. Even better is the fact that he doesn't seem keen to pick sides. It's no secret that Arthur has some very strong feelings regarding Merlin and Harry - and more specifically their feelings for each other - but Tristan doesn't fit quite so neatly into the spymaster's pocket. He's not bothered by having gay colleagues, but he's not about to thumb his nose at Arthur either. Comfortably neutral, and perhaps leaning slightly more in their favor.

 

"Alright there, Percy?" Tristan asks clapping him on the back.

 

The only problem is the way the man treats him like a child. Tristan is a good deal older than him, certainly, and Martin is rather young, but he likes to think he's proven himself capable enough by this point.

 

"It's Percival," Martin corrects him. "Stay on task, please, Tristan."

 

"Yes, sir," Tristan answers him with a snort.

 

Martin opts to ignore the remark and instead presses onward deeper into the facility. Like their own facilities, what one sees on the surface is not the whole package. They've descended deeper and deeper beneath the earth the further they've progressed and Martin wonders if Merlin knows just how far down this place goes.

 

" _If I'm correct, Galahad should be just ahead of you,_ " Merlin advises them.

 

At the end of the hallway before them is a locked door. Tristan's nudges Martin aside, pulling what looks like a plain black card from his belt. In actuality it's a cleverly encrypted key card whipped up by Merlin; one capable of gaining access through nearly any entry. He swipes it through the key card reader and waits. The status light strobes between red and green, indicating the gadget had done its job. Gripping the handle, Tristan presses himself flat against the door, whilst Martin does the same against the wall, and nudges the door open.

 

He curses under his breath as the red dome light at ceiling level begins flashing, a low alarm signal chiming out with it. "Let's make this quick then."

 

If there had been anyone in the room, they're gone now. All that's left behind is an operating table and the figure strapped to it, looking as though whoever had been there previously had left in the middle of a procedure in quite a hurry. After giving the room a quick sweep with his eyes and finding his way clear, Martin hurries towards the table with Tristan on his heels.

 

The fact that's most readily apparent is that Harry has had a rough go of things. His bare torso is littered with bruises; some the dark, angry purple of recent work while others are the faded yellow of past hurts. Equally, if not more worrisome are the track marks on his forearms. He's been injected with something repeatedly and given the discoloration matching his bruises, it's been over the course of his imprisonment. Cuts in various stages of healing and neatly sutured wounds make up the rest of his injuries from what he can tell at a glance.

 

"Galahad," Martin says, reaching out to touch his shoulder in an attempt to rouse his fellow Knight. "Galahad, can you hear me?"

 

But something's wrong. Harry's cold. Not just chilled, but _cold_. It's only then that Martin realizes Harry's chest isn't moving, his lips pale. Slowly, he shifts his hand from Harry's shoulder to his neck, pressing his fingers against his pulse point. He lingers there, waiting, thinking perhaps it's just too weak for him to feel, but... Nothing.

 

"Tristan," Martin utters, looking to the elder Knight helplessly.

 

Tristan leans in, reaching past him and replacing Martin's fingers on Harry's neck with his own. Seconds tick by before he withdraws, his expression stony. Gravely, he reaches for the knife on his tactical belt and cuts through the cuff keeping Harry's left wrist tied down. Again, he checks for a pulse and Martin watches him hopefully, only to feel a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach when Tristan gently rests Harry's arm on the table, shaking his head.

 

"Merlin," Tristan says into his comm, his tone sympathetic, "I'm afraid we've arrived too late. Galahad's gone."

 

There's silence from the other end, seconds passing in tense silence. To his credit, Merlin's voice is steady when he does finally answer.

 

" _Understood_ ," he replies in a flat monotone. " _Your assignment is terminated per Arthur's orders. Due to the assessed risk, you are not to attempt a recovery of agent Galahad's body. Please proceed_ _as necessary and withdraw immediately_. "

 

"I have that," Tristan answers. He let's out a harsh breath before looking back towards the door they'd entered from, calculating their exit.

 

Martin, in the meantime, has pulled his own knife free, cutting away the rest of the straps binding Harry to the table. Tristan is already at the door as Martin struggles to shift Harry's weight onto his back.

 

"Percival, what are you doing?" Tristan asks.

 

"You know very well what I'm doing," Martin answers.

 

Tristan inhales deeply, looking like he's gearing himself up for an unpleasant conversation. "I understand. And in any other circumstance, I wouldn't even think of leaving one of our own behind, but our time is limited with that alarm going off. Getting in here was tricky enough and now getting out will be doubly so. We can't afford the risk."

 

"I'm not leaving his body here, Tristan," Martin replies evenly, trying to accommodate Harry's weight.

 

"All you'll be doing is slowing yourself down and making yourself an easy target," Tristan says harshly. "You'll get _yourself_ killed alongside him. Do you suppose Galahad would want that?"

 

"It doesn't matter what he'd want. He's dead," Martin says, trudging towards the door. "Now, are you coming or not?"

 

"Percival, you've been given _orders_ ," Tristan barks. "You're completely out of line!"

 

"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Martin sneers.

 

"Fine. _Fine_. Merlin, just make sure this is on record for when the damned fool gets himself killed!" Tristan says angrily.

 

" _Understood_ ," Merlin replies once more. " _Percival, you understand that I cannot advise you to take this course of action and that by proceeding you will be subject to disciplinary action upon review of your assignment._ "

 

"I'm aware," Martin answers.

 

_"So noted,"_ Merlin says. _"My recommended route for you will be to take the hallway immediately to your left and head into the storage room at the end. The vent in the ceiling should take you over the heads of the incoming security."_

 

Tristan eyes Martin doubtfully but says nothing, merely shaking his head to indicate his disapproval. He starts out into the hallways with Martin in tow. "Alright, we'll be on our way."

 

 

* * *

 

_"Merlin, I'm afraid we've arrived too late. Galahad's gone."_

 

Tristan's statement cuts through him like a knife. Harry's gone. He'd been too late. He hadn't been able to locate Harry quick enough. And now he's gone.

 

_"Merlin."_

 

Arthur's voice startles him. He reaches to key up the intercom with shaking fingers.

 

"Yes, Arthur?"

 

_"Please inform Tristan and Percival to terminate their assignment and return immediately. Although I regret having to make this decision, we can't afford to lose another agent in an effort to return Galahad's body to England."_

 

"Of course," Merlin says woodenly. "I'll relay that to them now."

 

_"I'm sorry, Merlin. I know you and Galahad were... close."_

 

Merlin feels bile rising up the back of his throat, shaking not with shock now, but anger. He knew they were close. Knew they were close. Of course he fucking _knew they were close_ , he did everything in his power to keep them apart from each other. He did everything he could to punish Merlin for daring to be happy, to be happy with another man, with Kingsman's golden boy. And to mock him now...

 

A thousand vitriolic retorts race through his mind. All that comes from his mouth is, "Thank you, sir."

 

Put it away, he tells himself. Just put it away, pack it all up and stow it away. He can't do this now. He can't afford to feel this when he has two agents he still needs to see safely home. They're relying on him to guide them and letting his grief and anger rule his judgment will only lead to mistakes; potentially fatal ones.

 

"Understood," he answers Tristan in a flat monotone. "Your assignment is terminated per Arthur's orders. Due to the assessed risk, you are not to attempt a recovery of agent Galahad's body. Please proceed as necessary and withdraw immediately."

 

Hearing Tristan's acknowledgement, Merlin leans back in his seat, willing his body stop shaking. But he can't. The muscles in his back are bunched and tense, his hands balled into white knuckled fists on his console. His blood is boiling, his heart hammering so loudly that it feels as though it's beating against his ear drums.

 

This was no accident. It wasn't just unfortunate circumstances. Whether he can prove it or not, Merlin knows Arthur had some hand in making this happen. He can't let it go. He just can't. Everything else he's put up with until now, allowed abuses to roll off his back like rain water, taken whatever punishment has been doled out to him, stood fast in the face of near-inhumane levels of scrutiny, but not this. Not Harry.

 

Wild thoughts begin to fill his head, fueled by the heat in his blood and the aching wound in his core. Merlin could kill him. He could strangle the life from the spymaster with his own two hands. He'd never get away with it cleanly, no, but it would be worth it. Merlin would gladly hang for it if given the chance.

 

"That's enough."

 

He'd been so distracted, he hadn't even heard the door to Control open. Thomas stands firmly placed between Merlin and the door, his face grim but his eyes sharp with determination.

 

"Lancelot - "

 

"I know what you're thinking. I know what you _wish_ to do in this instance," Thomas tells him. "But now is not the time."

 

"Now is the _precise_ time," Merlin fires back at him. "You _know_ what he did. You know this wasn't just... just _bad luck_. You know he planned this, that he planned for Harry to be killed!"

 

" _Enough_!" Thomas barks at him, loud enough that Merlin flinches instinctively.

 

"I have already lost one of my boys today. I will not lose another," Thomas says firmly. "Do you understand me, Callum?"

 

Merlin forgets how to speak for a moment. Thomas has never used his name before. Never referred to him in such a manner. Harry had always been something like a son to Thomas, that much Merlin knew, but he was...

 

" _Do you understand_?"

 

"Y-Yes," Merlin stutters.

 

Thomas let's out a slow sigh, his shoulders dropping wearily. Harry's death visibly weighs on him, only compounding Merlin's own pain.

 

"After," Thomas tells him. "Once this assignment has concluded, once Percival and Tristan have returned safely, that will be the time. I'll even see to helping you myself. But not a moment before."

 

Listening to him speak, Merlin wonders if Thomas knows just what exactly he'd been thinking of doing. Because it doesn't seem the sort of thing he would volunteer himself for. Then again, perhaps he's simply not giving Thomas enough credit. Perhaps he should have considered that the depth of Thomas's love for Harry could rival his own despite being a very different sort of love.

 

"You still have a duty to see them safely home," Thomas says. He pauses and gestures to one of Merlin's many monitors where Martin's profile is pulled up on screen. "You have a duty specifically to that boy. It was your choice as well as Galahad's to look after him; you can't simply abandon him for the fact that Galahad is no longer with you to aid you in that venture. Bring Percival home and then I will gladly take you to Arthur myself."

 

That fact specifically wounds him as much as anything else. Because he knows Thomas is right. He and Harry had agreed that Martin needed someone looking out for his best interests. Throwing himself to the wolves for the sake of revenge would be selfish, in that regard. But oh, how he wishes to be selfish. He wishes he could. Going on without Harry seems pointless. It feels as though the only thing keeping him coming here day in and day out, the only thing keeping him getting up in the morning, is gone. But he remembers what Harry had said about Martin three years prior, following their first assignment together: Arthur will make a monster of him.

 

All this means that Merlin can't indulge his fervent wish to barge into Arthur's office and settle matters now. Harry wouldn't stand for it. And now that Thomas had brought it to his attention, the realization that he still has Martin to consider tempers his anger marginally. Merlin can't abandon him. Not like this.

 

"You should know I will hold you to that," Merlin says stiffly.

 

"I would expect nothing less," Thomas replies.

 

Before he can reply, the sound of a brewing argument draws Merlin's attention. More specifically, one very important phrase.

 

_"I'm not leaving his body here, Tristan."_

 

Merlin swallows thickly as he hears Martin's declaration over the comm line. It wasn't something he'd expected. Martin had come to respect Harry as a sort of mentor in the past few years, but it didn't change the fact that Martin could still be very heavily swayed by Arthur's influence. For him to go against orders simply to recover Harry's body only speaks to how deeply Harry must have influenced him. 

 

_"Fine._ _Fine_ _."_ Tristan's frustrated voice interrupts his musings. _"Merlin, just make sure this is on record for when the damned fool gets himself killed!"_

"Understood," Merlin answers. "Percival, you understand that I cannot advise you to take this course of action and that by proceeding you will be subject to disciplinary action upon review of your assignment."

 

_"I'm aware."_

 

Martin's answer almost sounds bored, as though all this discussion is accomplishing is to delay them further.

 

"So noted," Merlin says. "My recommended route for you will be to take the hallway immediately to your left and head into the storage room at the end. The vent in the ceiling should take you over the heads of the incoming security."

 

_"Alright, we'll be on our way then,"_ Tristan tells him.

 

Merlin leans back in his seat, letting out a harsh breath and running a hand over his shorn scalp. Martin is bringing Harry's body home. It doesn't fix things, doesn't sooth his anger, but it makes it easier. At the very least, they can give him a proper burial. At the very least, Merlin can say goodbye in his own way.

 

"Damned fool," Thomas says beneath his breath, shaking his head.

 

Merlin turns his head so quickly he sees stars.

Doesn't Thomas want at least to have Harry's body returned to them? Isn't that the _least_ they could ask for?

 

"Tristan's right. The boy's more likely to get himself killed than anything," Thomas says with obvious frustration.

 

"I don't understand how you can say that," Merlin says, feeling his temper beginning to boil once more.

 

"Of course you do," Thomas corrects him. "You're simply allowing emotion to cloud your judgement."

 

"You know as well as I do that leaving Harry's body there is just another power play by Arthur," Merlin says darkly.

 

"It very well could be, but it doesn't change the fact that it's still the correct call," Thomas says.

 

"It's dangerous, certainly, but hardly impossible so long as the two of them are diligent and watch each other's backs," Merlin says.

 

"And you trust them to do so?"

 

"You're asking if I trust them to behave as they've been trained to."

 

"No, no, you don't get to take that tone. You heard just as well as I how Percival deliberately disobeyed orders. You've seen Galahad do the same on any number of occasions. You can't turn a blind eye merely when it's convenient for you to do so."

 

"Oh, don't stand there and play high and mighty with me!" Merlin snaps at him. "As though you're any different!"

 

"And unlike you, I'm old enough to admit it!" Thomas booms, his voice roaring with all the authority of a lion whose patience has worn thin. "You're no less a welp than Percival as far as I'm concerned! I've warned you as well as Galahad of the dangers of attachments in this business and yet you continue to thumb your noses at it as though you're the first to believe they can beat the system. It is _your_ job to be a guide for your Knights. It is _your_ job to know their strengths and weaknesses inside and out. It is _your_ job to factor that against their motivations in an assignment. And it is _your_ job to use all of that to ensure their safe return. Which do you think Tristan values more: returning home to his daughter or bringing a dead man home? Do you suppose Tristan is willing to lay his life on the line for a fool of a boy who places more value in a corpse than his own life? 

"You _know_  the answers to those questions. You simply ignore them because of your attachment to Galahad. You're willing to deliberately ignore them because you're not willing to let this go. You're too damned stubborn, like a dog with a bone. This isn't about you or Galahad or whatever grand fairytale you both thought you were living, this is about the two men in the field who think their handler fit enough to guide them home when he isn't. Because he doesn't _want_ to be."

  
Merlin sits in stunned silence, his temper having reached a point that feels like a geyser prepared to burst.

"Get your act together or Arthur will be the least of your concerns, boy," Thomas growls, eyes like faded denim flashing dangerously.

 

"I have my act together," Merlin spits venemously. "You're the one who decided to come here and throw his weight around. I don't care how bloody old you are, it doesn't make you _right_. I'm not going to sit here and have you lecture me while you lie through your fucking teeth."

 

It's immediately apparent that his own temper is not the greater of the two in play. Dealing with Thomas is like dealing with a lion kept as an exotic pet. No matter how docile he may seem, no matter how domesticated, there is only ever a thin line between that docile behavior and his teeth on your neck.

 

"You watch your mouth," Thomas tells him, his voice deadly quiet.

 

"No," Merlin bites back. "I'll do my job and I'll do it well, but I'll not have you stand here and look down at me from some imagined moral high ground. Because I _know_ you love Harry every bit as much as I do, only you're too great a coward to admit it!"

 

Merlin's positive that if they were to proceed any further, the outcome wouldn't be pretty for either of them. Incidentally, they don't get that chance. A sudden flurry of activity from the radio draws their attention like a pair of hunting dogs drawn to the report of a shotgun.

 

"Tristan, Percival, status," Merlin says into the mic.

 

The sound of heavy breathing mingles with gunfire and shouting, but Merlin gets no acknowledgement. He hails them again and is met with the same response. Worry leaves a cold tingle at the base of his neck while he tries to filter through the noise to decipher what's going on. Gradually he's able to pick out Tristan and Percival's voices, but he finds no relief in it.

 

_"Stop being so goddamn thick about this! You'll get us both killed!"_

 

_"I never **asked** you to come back for me. Go on already!" _

_"Well, I can hardly do that, now, can I? Mother of Christ. Merlin? Merlin are you there?"_

 

"Here, Tristan," Merlin answers him, leaning forward attentively. "What's gone on? Why weren't you answering?"

 

_"Percival's been shot."_

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin's silence feels too loud after Tristan's proclamation. Admittedly, Martin was hoping to get away with keeping that detail to himself, but Tristan didn't seem to be in a particularly generous mood. Still, he'd come back for Martin when he'd said he wouldn't. The shot had taken his legs out from under him, sending him tumbling to the ground with Harry's dead weight on top of him. He would've managed to get himself back on his feet, but it likely would have been with significantly more holes in him if not for the older agent's intervention.

 

"It's not serious, just a shot to the leg," Martin chimes in, hoping to keep Merlin calm. "It tripped me up but it seems to be a clean through-and-through."

 

"The only problem being that he's still trying to drag Galahad back with him," Tristan says with obvious agitation.

 

_"Percival, I have to advise you to abandon your task. With that injury, your likelihood of escape is - "_

 

"I don't care," Martin says, adjusting his hold on Harry.

 

_"Percival, enough. This isn't the time for sentiment. Move on."_

 

That wasn't Merlin. That was... Lancelot. Thomas Brampton. Harry's mentor. Though he's not sure why, hearing his voice in particular only serves to make Martin dig his heels in all the more on the matter.

 

"No," he says bluntly.

 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tristan breathes, bent at the hip with his hands on his knees. "Merlin, can you figure a way out of this hole that will get us back to the plane quickest?"

 

_"Certainly, though, the quickest way may not be the easiest."_

 

"We'll manage," Tristan says, straightening. "Since none of us are going to change Percival's mind, we may as well have a good run of it."

 

Martin cocks his head to the side curiously. He isn't sure why Tristan would suddenly decide to help him in his self-assigned task when he had protested so strongly against it. He has a young daughter, Martin knows, and that gives him a rather strong motivation to see that he returns home alive. Martin had chosen this for himself; he had thought Tristan had made the same sort of choice.

 

"This is my decision, Tristan," Martin reminds him. "You have to do whatever it is you feel is right. Make your own decision."

 

"I have," Tristan answers. "And as much as I may disagree with _yours_ , I'm not very keen on leaving you to the consequences of your own idiocy."

 

Martin frowns at that. "But you - "

 

"Can be just as stubborn as you. Now, let's go before they catch up," Tristan says, shoving him to get them moving.

 

 

* * *

 

Martin is limping and panting heavily by the time they've reached the plane. Harry's body type differs from his own and solid muscle tends to be heavy, especially when carted through the rainforest. Tristan helps him shift the body off his back and onto the sofa within the plane. 

 

Martin sits heavily at Harry's head while Tristan pulls a sheet from the overhead. He watches as the older agent drapes the sheet gently over the body and the action suddenly brings with it the realization that this is a body. Not Harry. Just his body. Harry is gone, leaving only his shell behind.

 

"I'll get us up in the air, then we'll see about that leg of yours," Tristan declares, disappearing into the cockpit.

 

With the adrenaline of their mission wearing off, Martin merely nods as he bonelessly settles into the sofa. He should see to the still bleeding wound to his calf, but for a moment he just needs to... sit. His gaze hasn't left the sheet covering the body beside him since it had been laid there and now he simply stares wearily and allows passing thoughts to drift through his mind like leaves set adrift down a stream. One thought in particular snags itself upon the rocks, catching and bringing itself to the forefront of his attention.

 

"Merlin?" Martin calls over his comm line.

 

_"Percival."_

 

"Merlin, are you...?"

 

Are you alright? It's not a difficult question to ask. He knows Harry and Merlin had meant something to one another. He knows that Harry's death must have incurred some sense of loss for Merlin. Or grief. But why does this all matter to him? The world in and of itself has stayed the same. Tomorrow Martin will wake up to the same life as always, just with one less person in it. Why had retrieving this body mattered so much? It's just a body. Not the person who had inhabited it.

 

_"There will be time for discussion later, Percival. Best you take the opportunity to rest."_

 

It's a message Martin can read loud and clear: Merlin doesn't want to talk. It's just as well, Martin thinks. He isn't sure what he was going to say anyway.

 

Falling silent, Martin allows himself to examine his decisions made in the heat of the moment now that he has time to do so. At the time, his choice not to follow orders and leave his fellow agent's body behind seemed the most rational. It made sense. Harry was a good agent and deserved a proper burial. But now he has to wonder why. 

 

He very well _could_ have been killed. It's likely that if Tristan hadn't intervened, he would have been. That aside, it had thereby placed Tristan's life in jeopardy as well; despite the fact, he reminds himself, that he had not asked or expected Tristan to do anything but follow through with his own decisions. Now he's returning home with a bullet through his leg as well as a disciplinary hearing and likely a proper lecture from Lancelot awaiting him. And for what?

 

_Sentiment._

 

The thought brings with it a rolling wave of nausea. Sentiment. Sentiment is a weakness to be exploited, a chink in one's armor, a lack of control. It's not something he has. It isn't. He's in control. Martin isn't _weak_.

 

But if not for sentiment, then why? Out of some sense of duty? Or honor? Because it was only proper? And really, aren't each of those things just another branch of sentiment in the end?

 

"- cival. Percival?"

 

Martin turns his head and looks up, noting that Tristan had retrieved the med kit from the back and is now standing in front of him. He'd never even heard him leave the cockpit. 

 

"Looking a mite bit pale there, my boy," Tristan declares, taking a knee. "Why don't we see to stopping this bleeding?"

 

The older man hadn't commented on the fact that Martin very well could have (and rightly should have) seen to his injury himself instead of staring off at Harry's body. Martin wonders why that is, but doesn't ask. Instead he merely turns his head and returns his gaze to the sheet draped over Harry's body.

 

Peripherally he hears Tristan's warning that the clotting agent will sting, but he doesn't acknowledge it in any way. It does sting, certainly, but he's had worse. He sits unflinching, staring at the sheet as though it will spout answers to questions he hasn't even asked.

 

"You and Galahad were close," Tristan says, pressing gauze to the wound and applying pressure. "I'm sorry."

 

"No, I wouldn't say that we were," Martin replies. "He was something like a teacher, I suppose, at times. I respected his diligence and strategic thinking. But no, we weren't close."

 

"...alright," Tristan says to himself, sounding unconvinced. He pauses for a few moments before pressing on. "Then why risk so much to retrieve his body?"

 

"Because it was the proper thing to do," Martin tells him. "The gentlemanly thing."

 

"Even at the risk of your own life," Tristan fishes as he begins wrapping Martin's leg.

 

Martin stares unblinkingly at the sheet covering Harry like a burial shroud. Like the Shroud of Turin had supposedly covered Christ. Only Martin doesn't expect to find the stone tomb empty in three days' time.

 

"My own life was of little importance in the matter," Martin declares. "If it's something worth doing, then it's something worth dying for. Therefore the threat of death fails to stand as a deterrent."

 

He can feel that Tristan has paused in wrapping the bandages around his calf. Something he's said, perhaps. However, Tristan doesn't make a fuss, just hums in acknowledgement and picks up where he left on off. Most of his fellow Kingsman just leave him to his own devices. They don't pick and prod at his behavior or the things he says. 

 

Harry always did. He asked _why_ Martin thought a certain way or corrected him when he overstepped boundaries that he didn't even know existed. He challenged nearly everything Martin had been brought up to believe was right. It was annoying. Troublesome. It irked him to be tutted at as though by a teacher. Yet at the same time... he's almost thankful Harry had done it.

 

Martin's worldview had changed radically in the past three years. But considering he'd not been allowed off his parents' estate - even being home schooled until he was seventeen - until he'd been sent to Cambridge, perhaps that's not so surprising. Through Harry's guidance and Merlin's support and one particularly singular night when he was at Cambridge, Martin had begun to see just how sheltered he'd truly been. And in the worst way possible. He doesn't particularly enjoy having his foundation rattled by one Harry Hart, but deep down he knows it's necessary. Deep down he knows he's not right.

 

Perhaps that was why he'd felt so compelled to bring Harry's body back to England with them. Out of a sense of... not debt, precisely... He's not sure he can find a word for it. In any case the -

 

Martin's thoughts come to a screeching halt. The blanket is moving. Quivering, to be precise. Perhaps just the air conditioning in the plane. But had it been moving before? Had he just not noticed? Overcome with a sick curiosity, he reaches out and grabs hold of it before lifting it away.

 

Harry is as pale as he'd been when Martin had seen him last. The only difference is that now he's _shivering_. As if in a trance, he holds his hand less than an inch over Harry's nose and mouth... only to feel soft puffs of air tickling his palm. And when his fingers slide to Harry's neck, a pulse.

 

"Tristan," Martin says, his mouth dry.

 

"Mm?"

 

"Tristan, look."

 

"What?"

 

Three things happen at once: Tristan sees what Martin wants him to, he swears and squeezes Martin's leg in shock, and Martin shouts as this aggravates the bullet wound Tristan had been trying to bind.

 

"Does he have a pulse?!" Tristan shouts, jumping up from the floor.

 

"Of course he has a pulse!" Martin snaps, hissing in pain. "Why do you think I asked you to look?!"

 

"He didn't have one. We checked. There was no pulse, he was cold, not breathing," Tristan says in bewilderment. He checks Harry's pulse for himself and shakes his head in disbelief. "This is unbelievable, I don't even... Merlin! Merlin, Galahad's alive! I don't know how, but Galahad's alive!"

 

 

* * *

 

For a moment, Merlin sits frozen in his seat, wondering if he's heard correctly. _Galahad's alive._ That's what Tristan had said. But it's not as though two agents had somehow mistakenly pronounced him dead. Their training with first aid was advanced enough that it's simply not a mistake they would make.

 

_"Merlin, what do we do?"_

 

The question draws him out of his stupor, pushing aside any question of how this had happened in favor of taking action.

 

"Give me readings. Body temp, BP, oxygen... Show me what I'm working with," Merlin says, his voice sharp with authority. Without looking behind him, he says, "Lancelot, will you page Morgana, please?"

 

There are two hands on his shoulders, squeezing firmly. Too firmly, actually. Thomas doesn't have to say a word for Merlin to know what he's thinking. Because they're thinking the same thing: thank god, Harry's alive. Neither of them know how and neither of them care at the moment. Right now, as far as any of them are concerned, Harry's alive and they're going to keep him that way. The mystery surrounding the matter will be tackled later.

 

Thomas says nothing as he leaves the room with Merlin issuing instructions to the two field agents. There will be time for talk later and Merlin is certain they will speak of this at length. The way he'd lashed out at Thomas was... unprecedented. Outside of what had occurred today, he would never dream of speaking to Thomas in such a manner. But this hasn't been another day at the office. Harry had been dead, to the best of their knowledge. It was only his responsibility of seeing Percival and Tristan home that had kept Merlin from storming Arthur's office.

 

"Place the heating packs on his stomach, groin and under his arms," Merlin says into the mic. "Cover him with the thermal blanket but do _not_ try to rub his skin to get him warm. Percival, where are you with warming that saline solution?"

 

_"At thirty-six degrees Celsius,"_ Percival responds. _"I'm starting a line now."_

 

"Good. Tristan, give me another reading on his body temperature in precisely five minutes," Merlin instructs, his voice far calmer than he feels.

 

Harry is alive.

 

Harry is alive.

 

Harry is alive.

 

The same three words over and over like a personal mantra, keeping him focused. Everything will be fine. They're coming home with him. Harry is alive. Martin is safe. They're coming home. Merlin will bring them home.

 

 

* * *

 

Thomas closes the door behind him quietly. As much as he hadn't wished to leave Harry's room, he recognized that Merlin had earned a bit of privacy with him. Not that his opinion on the matter had changed - he didn't approve of the two of them ignoring his warnings regarding relationships. But he had another matter to see to and it was best to take care of it while the whole incident was still fresh.

 

Martin sits on the bed before him, pant leg rolled up to reveal fresh gauze wrapped securely around his calf. One of Morgana's staff had seen to the wound, stitching and bandaging it neatly. The young man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, watching Thomas with an air of curiosity as he rolls his pants leg down.

 

"Lancelot," he says in greeting.

 

"Percival," Thomas returns with a nod. "You and I ought to have a talk."

 

"Mm. I thought you may wish to," Martin says.

 

He steps back into his boots and laces them up before rising from the bed. He tests his weight on his injured leg and, finding the result satisfactory enough, looks once more to Thomas expectantly.

 

"You disobeyed a direct order. Not only from Arthur but from Merlin as well as myself," Thomas reminds him. "Do you have any idea how reckless you were?"

 

Martin cocks his head to the side. "But neither you nor Merlin outrank me. If anything, the only orders I've disobeyed were Arthur's."

 

"I have no time for your games!" Thomas growls, stalking towards the young Knight. "Treating a direct order so flippantly is _not_ something that is tolerated here. You can't pick and choose which orders to follow. Manners. Maketh. Man. Refusal to follow the orders of your superior is not only ill mannered, but the hallmark of poor self-control and a complete lack of discipline."

 

That seems to strike home. Young Percival's attention to detail hasn't escaped Thomas's notice and no doubt being accused of lacking discipline rankles him something fierce. But Thomas isn't here to hold his hand or play nice. The young man before him needs to learn how to accept his orders even if he may not like them. That's what he agreed to when he'd become a Kingsman. This rebellious streak which has emerged beneath Harry's mentoring needs to be nipped in the bud before it gets him killed.

 

"Your refusal to leave Galahad endangered your own life as well as Tristan's," Thomas presses on. "All because you were too damned stubborn to see reason."

 

"I never requested Tristan's assistance," Martin says easily. "He was entirely free to leave me to the consequences of my actions."

 

"You mindless young fool. What is it that occupies the space between your ears, I wonder, if not fluff and air?" Thomas asks with a scowl. "You have eyes for only the trees and never the forest. Tell me, why did you even wish to be a Kingsman in the first place?"

 

The question appears to catch Martin off guard. He stands still, dark eyes blinking owlishly back at Thomas as he searches for an answer. One doesn't seem to be readily available to him. He frowns down at the floor, arms crossed over his chest.

 

"I don't know," Martin admits.

 

"You don't know," Thomas echoes. "Then how can you claim to be fit for the position if you can't even answer so simple a question?"

 

"I _am_ fit," Martin bites back at him. "Arthur nominated me as his proposal and I passed the trials."

 

"With Arthur whispering in your ear all the while," Thomas reminds him.

 

The dark-haired young man glares back at Thomas, color rising high in his cheeks. Oh yes, Thomas knows. There's no way Martin would have passed the honeypot test otherwise. The majority of his other talents were his own or the result of Merlin's careful training, but it doesn't change the fact that Arthur had tipped the scales in his proposal's favor. 

 

Looking at Martin, Thomas sees a boy. Young, naive, easily swayed by authority figures with his views separated into black and white. Harry and Merlin's influence had begun to change that to a degree; primarily for the better, but in cases such as these, the results were not so positive.

 

"I'm not seeking to impeach you," Thomas assures him. "But you need to reconsider whether you truly wish to be here and whether or not you're willing to accept everything that comes with the position."

 

Martin continues to glare back at him and for a moment, Thomas wonders if he's too mortified to speak. He shouldn't have bothered.

 

"I'm not going to obey an order I know is wrong," Martin says quietly. 

 

"Then perhaps you ought to consider resignation," Thomas advises him.

 

"Perhaps _you_ ought to consider _retirement_ ," Martin spits.

 

Thomas has had enough. Enough of his back talk, enough of his stubborn attitude, and enough of his presumptuous habit of thinking he knows better. His ignorance has reached truly astounding levels. As much as Harry has affected him, Martin remains firmly within Arthur's palm and this duality sees him teetering atop a very dangerous peak. The two opposing forces clash in a manner that can never work with someone so easily manipulated. Which is precisely why Arthur had chosen him. He wanted another sheep in his flock and Martin seemed tailored to the position.

 

"I have half a mind to _throttle_ you right now if it would knock some _sense_ into your head!" Thomas snarls, jabbing a finger at him.

 

He'd had more to say, but it gets shelved the moment the words have left his lips. It was Martin's reaction. The instant Thomas had raised his hand, he'd seen Martin go stiff. It wasn't quite a flinch; it would be closer to say his body had locked up as though he were preparing himself for Thomas to strike him. Even as the older man contemplates this, Martin stares straight ahead - not _at_ Thomas so much as _through_ him - just waiting, and a series of puzzle pieces click together in Thomas's mind.

 

Thomas relaxes his stance, bringing his arms to rest at his sides. Arthur's recruitment of the boy suddenly makes even greater sense now than it had moments ago. Realizing nothing further has happened, Martin seems to snap out of his trance and fixes him with a frown, noticeably perplexed by this development.

 

"Lancelot?" Martin probes questioningly.

 

"Sit," Thomas instructs, motioning towards the bed.

 

Martin obeys, seating himself on the side of the bed with his hands folded in his lap, waiting patiently for whatever comes next. Thomas sits on the edge of the bed beside the younger man. Already he's thinking of taking Morgana aside for a word on this; no doubt she would manage a gentler approach than he could.

 

"Percival, what is it that you thought I was about to do?" Thomas asks.

 

Martin blinks before tilting his head and staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. His gaze returns to Thomas soon after. "Well, I thought it would be rather obvious. You made it very clear what you wished to do."

 

Thomas inhales deeply, much of his anger smothered beneath a heavy blanket of weariness. "And why did you not attempt to defend yourself?"

 

"I assumed it was a punishment," Martin answers easily. "For disobeying orders. Was I mistaken?"

 

"This is a means of punishment you've experienced often?" Thomas asks, though it's more of a statement than a question.

 

"...why are you asking me these questions?" Martin asks warily. "Is this a test?"

 

"No, no, this isn't a test," Thomas assures him. He sighs as Martin looks to him expectantly, clearly waiting for answers. "You disobeyed orders and for that you should be reprimanded. But never in that way, do you understand?"

 

"But - "

 

" _Never_ in that way, Martin," Thomas reiterates. 

 

Thomas doesn't expect him to come around to the idea right then and there, but it's important that he hear it all the same. His earlier anger suddenly flares up anew, though for a different reason now.

 

"I'll be going with you before Arthur for your disciplinary hearing," Thomas tells him.

 

Thomas had expected protest, questions at the very least. However, the conversation seems to have taken the wind out of Martin's sails. The boy sits quietly beside him, seeming oddly subdued for all his earlier piss and vinegar. Thomas's actions - or perhaps his inaction - have apparently pulled the rug out from beneath him. 

 

Martin stares back at him, his expression blank as dark eyes search Thomas's face for answers. He doesn't understand, Thomas knows. That lack of understanding is undoubtedly far more terrifying to him than if Thomas were to have done as Martin had expected. 

 

"...alright."

 

He doesn't appear to know just what he's agreeing to, but he doesn't fight Thomas on the matter.

 

 

* * *

 

Harry makes his way through the halls, glad to have the opportunity to stretch his legs. Although still recovering, Morgana had deemed him well enough to get out of bed, at least for a short while. Despite seeming every bit the modern day Lazarus, the cause of his apparently miraculous resurrection was entirely chemical.

 

'Yusupova' is a name he is very quickly learning to loathe. She's behind the curtain to more of Kingsman's failed missions than Harry would care for. In this case, the mad Russian scientist had opted to use Harry as a guinea pig for a number of her latest concoctions. One of which, according to Morgana, had been a chemical sort of suspended animation meant to avoid the potential tissue damage sometimes caused by cryopreservation's subzero temperatures.There would have been no way for Tristan or Percival to differentiate this state from death.

 

And they hadn't. Yet here he is, alive and fully on his way to being well again. A great deal of the reason for this is why Harry is headed towards the estate's main library. He threads his way through the aisles, breathing in the comforting smell of books and old leather mingled with the rich, smokey smell of the large hearth at the library's back wall.

 

"I couldn't help but notice," Harry says as he emerges into the alcove of tables and plush leather chairs, "that of the many faces hovering over my bedside, yours was not among them."

 

Martin doesn't look up from the book he's poured over. "You had no dearth of well-wishers, so you'll excuse my absence."

 

The beginnings of an amused smile tug at the corners of Harry's mouth at the frank response. Martin leans forward in his seat, studying the pages before him intently, framed by stacks upon stacks of heavy volumes. One of their more studious agents, Martin had always seemed to excel when it came time to hit the books for the sake of their work and so it's hardly any surprise to find him here. Harry walks forward, approaching the table on the side opposite the younger man.

 

"From what I understand, I very nearly wasn't here to receive them at all," Harry says, placing his hands in his pockets.

 

"We don't need to have this conversation," Martin tells him. "I did what I thought was proper; nothing more."

 

"So I've heard," Harry agrees.

 

Merlin had given him a fairly complete picture, but the gaps had been filled in by a very remorseful Tristan. Harry had been quick to dismiss the older man's apologies; he had been following orders and had a young daughter to think of, and for that Harry couldn't find him at fault. But although Merlin had explained the incident, Tristan had given Harry one of the things he was most curious about. Namely, a first-hand account of Martin's actions. The dark-eyed young man may deny it to his last, but Harry knows his decisions hadn't been motivated solely by propriety.

 

"You're well, I hope?" Martin asks, eyes still scanning the pages.

 

"Better by the day," Harry replies. "Even better for being allowed out of bed."

 

"I'm glad to hear it."

 

"Are you?"

 

Martin's eyes find him and Harry knows he's pushing buttons that the other agent would rather he didn't. But that's what Harry does. He pushes and prods and does whatever he can to bring Martin out of his shell.

 

"Yes," Martin says at last, lowering his eyes to the book once more. "I am."

 

"I'm glad to hear it," Harry echoes with a grin.

 

His cheeky remark is met with a predictably chilly response as Martin simply sighs with a shake of his head and returns to his reading. For a moment, he simply goes on reading as though Harry wasn't even in the room. But apparently Harry's mere presence is enough to irk him.

 

"Is there something I can help you with or did you simply come here to loiter?" Martin asks him.

 

"There _is_ something I'd like to discuss, actually," Harry tells him. "Namely your apparent issue with following orders."

 

"Lancelot and I have already discussed the matter and I've gone before Arthur for my disciplinary hearing," Martin informs him. "I don't see that there's anything more to discuss."

 

"I think that there must be, considering the result of your disciplinary hearing was Lancelot being shipped off to Bolivia for an estimated six months," Harry says smoothly.

 

That grabs Martin's attention. Harry can see the line of his shoulders go tight at his words and he knows Martin won't try to make him leave now. There's guilt there and Harry intends to unravel the whole thing from start to finish.

 

"I didn't ask him to help me any more than I asked Tristan," Martin replies, frustration ringing through in his tone. "His motivations for doing so make even less sense than Tristan's."

 

"People don't always base their decisions on things that make sense," Harry says pointedly.

 

"Stop trying to goad me into admitting something you _think_ you know, Galahad," Martin says tersely, slamming his book shut.

 

Harry follows after Martin when he rises from the table, his pace slow and languid despite the younger's brisk strides; he's still limping from being shot in the leg and he's not going anywhere fast. Harry catches up to him in his own time, spying Martin scanning through the shelves, pulling out and putting back books with an air of agitation. Harry comes in beside him, leaving a foot or so of space between them as he leans his shoulder into the bookcase.

 

"This isn't an attack, you know," Harry assures him.

 

"Then would you mind getting to the point?" Martin asks.

 

"You were wrong in deciding to return my body to England," Harry says.

 

"You're not the first to say so."

 

"I'm not talking just about orders now," Harry says, shaking his head. "The situation was deemed too dangerous for recovery. The order was given for the safety of the two agents assigned to the mission. I have told you before that disobeying an order may be the right call, so long as it's done in the right circumstances. This was not one of those circumstances. You could have been killed."

 

"You're beginning to sound like a broken record, Galahad," Martin says, examining the cover of the thick tome in his hands. "It's done. The decision was made and the results have already come to pass. I don't see that there's anything more you can do about it."

 

"I can make sure it doesn't happen again," Harry retorts harshly. "You behaved like a _child_ , Martin. Apparently I haven't trained you well enough if you're fool enough to risk your life for a _corpse!"_

_"You weren't just a corpse!"_ Martin snarls, hurling the book at the floor so hard that the spine breaks.

 

The statement hangs in the air between them as the dust settles from the ruined book on the floor. Martin's hands are balled into fists at his sides as he stares down at the book, refusing to meet Harry's eyes. Harry had known this all along, but getting Martin to admit it was like pulling teeth. However, if he continues to deny these things he feels, eventually it will come back to bite him. He isn't doing it to torment Martin, but to protect him.

 

"...oh my god, that book was a first edition," Martin says, pressing a hand to his head in horror. For a moment he seems to forget they'd even been arguing.

 

"Leave the book for now, Martin," Harry says, bringing him back to the point at hand. "We're not finished."

 

"You may not be, but I am," Martin declares, book once more forgotten. "You're wasting your time and I have work to do."

 

He brushes past Harry, striking out back the way they'd come. Harry moves to follow, deciding he wasn't going to let the younger man run away from him. He hastens his pace to a jog, following Martin through the twisting trail he weaves among the shelves. But it's as he makes a hard right that his recent brush with death catches up with him.

 

Suddenly his head swims and his legs go weak, forcing him to throw a hand out in an effort to steady himself. The sound of books tumbling from the shelf barely permeates his awareness and he fumbles for a grip. Spots fill his vision and his ears ring, suddenly the room feels far too warm. He hears his name being called, but it sounds muffled, like someone's speaking into a pillow. He feels hands on him just as his consciousness ebbs...

 

But Harry doesn't come to on the floor as he'd expected. Instead, as the fuzziness filling his head slowly evaporates, he finds himself propped in one of the armchairs by the fire. His tie is loosened and his collar undone, and as his vision clears he finds Martin standing by the left side of the chair watching him intently. He presses a glass of water into Harry's hand and Harry sips from it slowly, feeling weaker and more worn than he would care to be. He's never been very good at this 'convalescing' thing.

 

"Are you alright?" Martin asks.

 

"Fine," Harry insists, annoyed by how hoarse he sounds. He clears his throat loudly, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Just an ill-timed bout of lightheadedness."

 

Martin nods, but doesn't seem especially convinced. Even still, he doesn't press the matter. He disappears briefly from Harry's vision, returning with a book in hand as he seats himself in the armchair opposite Harry's and begins to read. For a time, Harry leaves him to it, letting himself recover marginally from his fainting spell. Much as he loathes it, he's not exactly fighting fit; Yusupova and her hired hands had put him through quite the ordeal. Not to mention that if Morgana were to hear of this, she would confine him to an infirmary bed until he were old enough to retire.

 

"Don't mistake my disapproval for ingratitude," Harry says, breaking the silence. "If you had done what I'm telling you now, I know I wouldn't be here."

 

"Then why tell me?" Martin asks, continuing to read.

 

"Because I don't want to see you killed for my sake," Harry responds patiently. "I don't want you to come to harm as a result of what you may feel for me or for Merlin."

 

"Feelings had nothing to do with it," Martin answers him. "Returning your body for burial was the proper thing to do. That's all it was."

 

"Martin," Harry sighs. 

 

"You're wrong," Martin says, continuing to stare down at his book. "Accept it and move on."

 

To Harry's eyes, Martin seems tense and defensive. Emotion and sentiment are two things that he seems to want nothing to do with, but Harry knows they're things he's been forced to confront since earning his title. Harry himself isn't exactly the picture of healthy emotional expression, but he can at least admit to himself that he feels the things he refuses to express. Martin seems incapable of even that much.

 

"You would be missed if you were gone," Harry tells him, trying to approach from another angle. "If you won't listen for your own sake, perhaps you could do so for others'?"

 

He can't help the feeling of smug satisfaction he gets from seeing Martin drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, unable to formulate a response. The request has agitated him, but he hasn't refused it. Harry waits patiently, watching his protégé grapple with the ideas being presented to him. He hears a heavy sigh accompanied by the sight of Martin's shoulders dropping marginally.

 

"But what about you? Do you... feel things? When you're on an assignment?" Martin asks haltingly.

 

"I should think I feel a great deal of things," Harry says with raised eyebrows.

 

"Then why doesn't it ever appear as though you do?" Martin presses.

 

"Control, mostly," Harry responds. "Practice. You learn to conceal whatever emotions you may be feeling for the sake of the assignment. Although it helps if you have prior experience."

 

Ever the proper emotionally repressed English gentleman. That was the Hart way, after all.

 

"But _how_?" Martin stresses.

 

"As I said, practice," Harry replies. "Being in control doesn't mean you feel nothing at all. It means feeling those emotions and knowing their place; it's learning to live with them even if they aren't expressed."

 

"...I don't think that's possible," Martin says. "I think perhaps I was better off before I began to associate with you and Merlin."

 

"Yes, I suppose it would be easier to feel nothing at all," Harry hums. "But do you really suppose you were better off?"

 

"...I don't know," Martin admits. "This isn't how I was raised. It doesn't feel right."

 

"I understand," Harry says. And he does, even if not completely. "Though I hope you know that Merlin and I wouldn't purposely do something to harm you."

 

Martin hesitates, but ultimately offers Harry a quiet nod. He seems oddly subdued now, Harry thinks. But oftentimes when Harry's pushed Martin out of his comfort zone, he gets this reaction. A silent retreat back to safety. He wonders what goes on in the younger man's head, wonders just how he was raised that would culminate in these thoughts and ideas he has.

 

"I thought Merlin deserved at least to bury you. And I thought that... I owed you... something," Martin says quietly. "But I don't know why. It all made sense when it was happening, but once we were back on the plane..."

 

Harry doesn't push him to explain any further. It's clear he still has a great deal of thinking to do about the matter. But one thing still bothers Harry.

 

"Martin, there's one more thing I'd like to discuss," Harry tells him. "And I promise I won't bother you further."

 

Martin looks up from his book, eyeing Harry with a wary expression, but doesn't decline.

 

"Why did you tell Tristan that your life was of little importance?" Harry asks.

 

"Because it was," Martin answers earnestly.

 

"Why would you think that?" Harry asks.

 

"Just... because that's the way it is, Harry," Martin replies. "If I were to die, well... that would be the end of it. It's not as though I would be around to have any thoughts on the matter. And I'm sure going through the recruitment process again would be bothersome for Merlin, but I can be replaced easily enough."

 

Harry suddenly feels very old. (Which you will never, ever get him to admit.) And Martin seems so very young. There's no sadness in his words, no self-pity, no indication that he feels anything at all about the matter. Just a straightforward and linear answer as though Harry had asked him about the weather.

 

"Your life has value, Martin," Harry says. "And that value should never be placed below the dead, regardless of who they are. You need to understand that."

 

"I'm not sure that I do understand," Martin admits. "What does it matter? People are born and people die. It's just the way things are."

 

"It's what they do between those two events that matters," Harry replies, shaking his head. "Every life has value and meaning. Just because you don't know the meaning of yours doesn't mean you ought to throw it away."

 

"But I wasn't throwing it away, I was doing something with it."

 

"Which just brings me straight back to valuing your life more than the dead."

 

"...oh."

 

They sit quietly for a time in companionable silence, Harry watching the younger man chew on the ideas presented to him. Admittedly, the warmth of the fire makes Harry feel a bit drowsy. He permits himself the indulgence of closing his eyes, but remains thoroughly unhappy about how his continued recovery has meant he tires this easily.

 

"Well, I still don't regret it," Martin announces suddenly.

 

Harry snorts a laugh. "Yes, I gathered that much."

 

"Should I fetch Morgana or Merlin to come collect you?" Martin asks.

 

"No. I believe I'll just sit by the fire for a while," Harry sighs, feeling comfortably warm.

 

"I ought to return to my research," Martin says. "But if I could offer _you_ a piece of advice first?"

 

Harry's tickled by the idea. What could Martin possibly feel the need to advise him on?

 

"Certainly."

 

"You may wish to consider losing some weight," Martin says. "You were unreasonably heavy for a man of your height and age."

 

...convalescence be damned, Harry's not letting him get away with that.


	2. father of mine (Martin & Harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freshly returned from his six month assignment in Bolivia, Thomas is dispatched with Harry on a recovery mission to Somalia.

**[MOGADISHU, SOMALIA; 1996]**

Harry presses tight against the wall, working to control his breathing as he listens to the sounds of gunfire and explosions that are not nearly far enough away from them for his liking. Thomas is right beside him, freshly returned from Bolivia after a six month long assignment—a punishment he had taken in the place of the agent they're now here to recover.

Frankly though, Harry isn't sure that Thomas is quite up to the task. Even before they'd left, Thomas had appeared worn and weary, his face thinner than Harry remembered and dark smudges beneath his eyes. It's a mystery to him as to why Arthur would assign Lancelot as his backup if not in a deliberate attempt to get him killed. This is a black file assignment and to Harry's knowledge, only he and Martin have been assigned to them for the past few years.

Black file assignments require a certain level of brutality that most of their agents aren't capable of—and the ones that are capable don't have the skill set necessary to undertake them. Harry and Martin, however, slot very neatly into the center of that Venn diagram. This is not a mission worthy of a bespoke. There are no gentlemen here. Black tactical gear and a steely resolve are what they have instead.

If you were to ask Harry, he would tell you that these assignments don't bother him apart from being a bit more tiresome than his usual fare. He might refer to them as 'troublesome.' In truth if you were to observe him as a fly on the wall following one, you would see a very different story. You would see a young man worn thin by the savagery he is capable of and which he had put to use. You would see a young man who is tired, weary in ways which have nothing to do with his body and everything to do with his spirit. You would see a young man adamantly doing his best to lie to himself and say these things are not true.

While Harry struggles far beneath the surface of his unruffled demeanor, he wonders constantly if the same is true of Martin. Because his protégé does seem well and truly unbothered by the things they're asked to do. But still, Harry wonders. He's had glimpses of emotion in the four years Martin has been with them, but these brief instances seem to horrify Percival far more than the atrocities he's asked to commit for the greater good.

But surely he must feel something? Perhaps not what Harry does, but something. Harry believes he may be getting an answer from this recon mission.

The body cameras Merlin had recently rolled out of R&D provided Harry with a full picture of what Martin had been seeing and doing. Everything had appeared to be going as planned until the frame was filled with the image of a young boy with a firearm far too large for his little body strapped across his shoulders. 

Martin had frozen.

Harry had been able to hear his loud, panting breaths as well as the command for the boy to go home spat in hurried Somali. The boy hadn't budged, raising the muzzle of the weapon towards Martin, though it seemed to take all his strength to do so. Martin had continued asking the boy to go home before he got himself killed, only for his sentence to be broken by the sound of gunfire to his right. There had been a brief shout before the camera had blacked out. All they'd gotten after that had been ten seconds of grainy footage through a cracked lense of Martin bunkering himself down somewhere and the sound of wheezing breaths. His hand braced against the wall before him left behind a gruesome smear of red. Then the feed had cut for good.

Which is why Harry and Thomas are ducking through alleyways in Syria while the country is in total upheaval. Whatever information Percival has must be important; Harry had been surprised Arthur hadn't opted to leave Martin to his fate. He'd tried to do it before in much less dire circumstances.

 _"Take your next left and proceed down the flight of stairs and into the tunnel,"_ Merlin instructs them, the constant voice in their ears as ever.

Harry nods wordlessly despite the fact that Merlin can't see it and looks over his shoulder to check in with Thomas. The older man offers him a firm nod and they hurry to follow the wizard's instructions. Merlin winds them through alleys and tunnels and up narrow staircases until at last he tells them to pause where they are in a secluded little alcove just below ground level. 

 _"To the best of my knowledge, he should be just ahead of you,"_ Merlin informs them. _"Beyond that door."_

"Still no luck reaching him on the comms, I take it," Thomas says.

 _"No, I'm afraid not,"_ Merlin tells them. _"Whatever took his cam out seems to have done the same with his comm line. I've tried every means possible to patch in."_

"Nothing for it then," Harry says.

Thomas grunts gruffly in agreement as they cautiously shuffle forward. Harry knows there's no absolute guarantee that Martin is on the other side of this door or that he's alone for that matter, and he sees that reflected in Thomas's grim expression as he says, "Alright, we're pressing onward. Merlin, you've got Morgana standing by?"

 _"Standing by, Lancelot,"_ Lucy chirps. _"Although I'm hoping there won't be a great need for my services."_

"Likewise, Mags," Harry says quietly as they reach the door.

He raps against the wooden door gently with his knuckles—not loud enough to give them away to any potential lurkers, but loud enough for anyone occupying the room to hear. There is no response. This may not necessarily mean anything, but worry gnaws at the corner of his consciousness all the same. Meeting Thomas's eye, the older man nods before shifting to press himself against the wall beside the door, gun at the ready. 

Harry mirrors him, pressed flat against the wall opposite. He holds his firearm in one hand as he reaches out with the other to grasp the door handle. He's pulled the door open no more than an inch or two before a sudden hail of gunfire forces him to yank his arm back to safety. The bullets had torn through the old wood of the door, providing him with a view into the room.

Pressed into the far corner with his rifle propped up on his knee is Martin, though from here Harry can't tell what sort of shape he's in.

"Percival! It's Lancelot and Galahad," Harry hisses at him. "English breakfast tea, milk with two sugars. Do _not_ shoot."

The pre-established code does its job and as Harry tries to open the door a second time, he's able to do so freely. Making a quick visual sweep of the room and finding it clear, he quickly walks to the corner of the room with Thomas on his heels. As he kneels to inspect the younger Knight, Thomas stays on his feet, alert and keeping watch for any potential unwanted guests.

"We have him, Merlin," Harry says into his radio.

_"Aye, I can see him now."_

Martin says nothing as Harry kneels in front of him, though his brown eyes slowly track Harry's movement. He's worryingly pale in Harry's opinion—which is saying something, considering he's rather pale to begin with—and taking slow, measured breaths. Harry spots a light piece of linen, soaked liberally with red, wadded up and pressed to his right side. 

"Alright Percy, let's have a look," Harry says quietly as he reaches over.

The black of his tactical gear makes it impossible to see precisely what sort of injuries they're dealing with. But as Harry slowly peels the linen back, the amount of blood on the cloth and still flowing tells him that whatever it is, it isn't good. And with that little rattle of gunfire earlier, Harry's not sure how much time they have here to address it.

 _"Lancelot, you should have what you need in that field pack for a quick patch job,"_ Lucy tells them. _"Just get the bleeding slowed; the rest will have to wait until you get him back to me."_

"We're going to have to be quick about this," Thomas advises. 

Harry watches as the older man takes a knee beside him and begins digging through the pack Morgana had sent along with him. Knowing what they're about to do, Harry takes the lead and begins shifting Martin away from the wall. The motion draws a soft, pained sound from the younger Knight and though Harry tries to be as gentle as possible, he knows there's not much that won't hurt at this point. Sitting on the floor, he pulls Martin's top half into his lap, rolling him onto his uninjured side.

"Why're you here?" Martin grunts, the first words he's spoken since they arrived.

"Arthur dispatched us to retrieve you," Harry tells him, watching Thomas lay out his supplies.

"Bullshit."

Harry's lips quirk up in a lopsided smile at the weary proclamation. It's about as much as Harry would have thought himself in Martin's place. Glancing up he sees Thomas cutting through clothing to get straight to the wounds in Martin's side. Beneath the layers of black is a bloody red mess, still oozing freely. Thomas meets his eyes as he straddles Martin's legs; this won't be pretty.

"I'd have been the first to agree with you," Harry assures the younger man. He pauses briefly to wet his lips, the arid climate doing them no favors. "Percival, we're going to use a clotting agent to stem this bleeding. Then we'll dress it and get on our way, alright? Just do your best to put up with it for a minute or two."

Martin does little more than nod grimly. Harry knows this is likely to get ugly very quickly. He's had that powder thrown into more wounds than he'd like and the experience is often times more agonizing than the wound itself. That being said, however painful, it's saved his life in some truly tight spots. When it's a matter of preventing further blood loss, there's not a great deal of choice in the matter.

Thomas doesn't bother with any preamble. The moment the powder meets the wound, Martin's bucking in his hold and Harry quickly claps a hand over the younger man's mouth to smother his scream—they've made too much noise as it is. He thrashes against them as the clotting agent does its work and Harry's surprised he has this much strength left in him to fight them with.

"Hold him steady!" Thomas grunts, pressing clean gauze to Martin's side while he pins his legs.

"I'm trying, Lancelot!" Harry hisses back at him.

Thomas looks as though he's riding a bucking bull, but this is about as still as they can get him. Harry had asked for Martin to do his best to bear it and anyone looking might think he had ignored that advice. Harry, on the other hand, knows better. There are some levels of pain wherein your body's reactions are out of your control. Having dealt with the clotting agent many a time before, Harry can recall vividly the searing pain of it. It always felt as if it were burning a hole in him—worse than the burn of actual fire. Some of his more serious wounds had left him thrashing to escape it despite his attempts to control himself. At least twice he'd passed out from the pain alone when the Quik Klot was used.

Martin's hand is clamped around Harry's wrist, squeezing so tight that Harry's fingers have gone numb. If it makes it easier to manage his pain, however, Harry won't object to it. Watching Martin writhe beneath them, Harry is once again struck by the strangeness of this recon mission. Not that he isn't glad for it; he can't say he wouldn't have gone anyway if Arthur had refused to dispatch him. 

For all his flaws, Martin still has the potential to grow and Harry is determined to see that through. Arthur means to shape him into something lethal, some unfeeling machine—something Harry knows Martin is more than capable of becoming without intervention. Leading him away from that will inevitably be the more difficult of the two paths, but Harry is convinced it's possible. He's sure there's good in him. He's seen glimpses of it before. It just needs to be given a chance to be cultivated. What had begun as a project to spite Arthur had long since progressed to becoming a personal mission for both himself and for Merlin and Harry isn't about to let it end now.

Gradually Harry watches the fight leave him, his thrashing lessening to weak spasms, until eventually Martin lies quiet and staring dazedly across the room as Thomas wraps the wounds as best he's able. Pulling his hand away from Martin's mouth now that he's stopped screaming, Harry sighs quietly and pats him on the arm. 

"Nearly finished now," Thomas says quietly.

He finishes binding the wound and leans back on his haunches to repack the medical bag. Then, along with Harry, he pulls Martin to his feet. But it's immediately clear he won't be able to stand, nevermind walk, even with their help. Harry has to move quickly to make sure Martin doesn't go crashing back to the floor after they've gotten him upright. He hangs limply between them even as he tries to get his own feet under him, but Harry quickly chalks it up to a lost cause. 

"Lancelot, help me get him on my back," Harry says, keeping Martin propped up.

"Are you certain you can carry him all that way?" Thomas asks, looking at him with a critical eye.

"I'm not claiming it will be a stroll in the park, but I'm capable," Harry assures him.

 _"You don't seem to have much choice in the matter,"_ Merlin announces suddenly. _"I believe you may have attracted some attention."_

"I figured as much," Thomas says. "Let's be quick about it."

Harry stoops down low as Thomas helps him shift Martin's weight onto his back, drawing barely stifled grunt of pain from the younger Knight in the process. Straightening up, Harry stands with his arms hooked beneath Martin's knees and looks to Thomas with a nod. He's ready to go. Martin is heavy, certainly, but a weight he's prepared to carry. 

* * *

Back at Central, nestled in the quiet depths of his Control Room, Merlin is having some thoughts very similar to Harry's. He can feel the weight of Lucy's stare on him but doesn't turn to acknowledge it; he's not quite sure how to, if he's being honest with himself. As usual, she doesn't pay that much mind and takes the lead herself.

"You still seem troubled," she notes.

"I still have three agents that I need to guide back to their plane," Merlin answers.

"Don't play coy with me," Lucy tuts at him. "I meant beyond that."

Merlin leans back in his seat, holding his mug close to his chest—an ugly thing Harry had picked up for him on a return trip to Barcelona, but undeniably his favorite. Yes, something is bothering him. He just doesn't know exactly what it is. Something about this whole recon mission smells off to him but he can't track the scent to where it's coming from.

"I have an odd feeling about Arthur's choice to send Lancelot and Galahad after Percival," Merlin finally admits. "As well as his decision to include me as handler. You _know_ he takes that role himself for black file assignments with those two."

It's not something he's ever been particularly pleased with. In fact, he's quite sure it's not something done so much out of necessity for preserving sensitive information as it is something done to snub him. These are the assignments that worry Merlin the most; and not only for the danger involved. Over the years, he's watched Harry return from them time and again, looking as though he'd carved out a piece of himself and left it behind. Regardless of any injuries, these assignments always require a lengthy recovery time for Harry. He'll sleep for days at a time, barely eating anything and only drinking tea if Merlin's there to force it on him. It's as though he has to figure out how to put himself back together again, each and every time.

These assignments ask things of Harry that Merlin wouldn't dream of asking anyone. Many men he knows would go mad with some of the choices Harry's had to make, the things he's had to do. And he only knows what Harry chooses to divulge to him, though he's certain there's more. Because these assignments need Harry to tap into a part of him he rather wishes didn't exist. It's a part of him that's dark and angry, cruel, frightening. A part of him that's capable of unspeakable violence and terrible fury, like some great Titan made man. It takes far too much out of him to let it loose and chain it up again when it's no longer called for.

Previously, it had only been Harry who had been given these assignments. Then Martin had come along. Still, Merlin would hesitate to say that this thing they possess is the same; Harry burns red hot while Martin is as cold as ice. Yet they are undeniably linked. However, Martin doesn't seem to be affected in quite the same way as Harry by these missions.

It's another thing that gnaws at Merlin. As much as Arthur may push Harry in these assignments, he's able to recognize that fact and keeps pushing back. However low a point Harry may reach, he will never be shaped into what Arthur wishes him to be. He knows better. Martin, however, does not. The fact that both Merlin and Harry are cut off when he undertakes these assignments is worrisome to both of them. Leaving Martin alone with Arthur is...

Not for the first time, Merlin feels a pang of guilt for thinking of the younger agent in terms of a lump of clay; something to be molded. It's not that Martin has no agency of his own, but rather, Merlin's never met another man quite like him. Whatever his life before Kingsman had been like, Merlin can't say, but he's strangely vulnerable to manipulation despite all his seemingly headstrong nature. Even four years in, Merlin doesn't always know what to make of him. But he's certain that whatever sort of man he is should be his choice.

All of this brings Merlin right back to where they now find themselves. Arthur would never even think of bringing Merlin in when he has an opportunity to get Harry or Martin alone, away from the wizard's influence. Then there's the fact that he's staged a recon mission at all. Arthur has proven himself capable of deciding recovery to be too risky in situations less perilous than this. And his choice of agents to send in? Tristan had been available and fully willing to take Lancelot's place—unusual for him, being that he's not one to tempt fate and take risks—yet Arthur had made his decision. He sent along Lancelot, who had just recently arrived back from a six month long assignment in Bolivia.

It's Merlin's opinion that he's deliberately setting them up for failure.

"Something about all this doesn't feel right to me," Merlin says after a length. "Too many variables that feel out of place."

To his surprise, Lucy doesn't attempt to fluff off his worries or convince him he's looking too deeply into the matter.

"I agree," she answers, fingers wrapping around her mug. "Sending Lancelot out for this was a poor choice. I advised Arthur of that, but he disagreed. Being that Lancelot had no reason medically withholding him from the assignment, I couldn't override his decision. But it's a poor one all the same."

Merlin watches her thumb moving along the rim of her mug as she watches the many screens before them. It's no secret to him that she and Thomas are very much like himself and Harry. There are some things this organization doesn't allow you to have and he knows that whatever they have between them is one of them. Undoubtedly sending him off into battle when he's not fighting fit is only mutliplying her anxiety.

"He'll need to rest when he returns," Lucy says at length, sipping from her mug. "Undoubtedly all of them will."

Merlin doesn't doubt that in the slightest. "How bad off do you suppose Percival is?"

Lucy shakes her head. "It's difficult to say. From what I could tell through Lancelot's camera, there appeared to be at least three entry wounds. What worries me is that I couldn't see any sign of an exit wound anywhere."

Though he may not be a medical professional, Merlin knows enough to be able to say that isn't good. Not that he wants to see Martin with any more holes in him, but having a few bullets playing bumper cars with his internal organs is a dangerous game. Especially considering the three of them are still out in the field in harm's way.

"But it's entirely possible I just couldn't see the exit wounds via the feed," Lucy tacks on. "I'll need him in front of me before I can properly say. But my staff has been paged and prepped, so they'll be ready and waiting when those three arrive."

_Assuming they do arrive._

Neither of them wants to admit it, but the thought hangs between them all the same.

* * *

Though they're out of the thick of it, Harry and Thomas are fair to limping their way back to the plane. Getting this far hadn't been easy and they've all got the wounds to show for it. Harry blinks blood from his eyes, reaching again to wipe at the cut above his right eyebrow which doesn't seem to wish to stop bleeding. Undoubtedly Harry is fairly banged up, but he can't help but worry for Thomas more.

The older man looks nearly dead on his feet, exhaustion weighing on him heavily. Harry can hear him breathing as they draw nearer to their destination and again he wonders at Arthur's logic. Usually he at least tries to hide it when he's trying to off one of them. But in this case his logic had been that Thomas was the most skilled and senior agent available, which this mission required. Harry couldn't exactly disagree with that sentiment, but with as thin as Thomas had been worn by his last assignment, it seemed foolish from anyone's perspective.

Martin, on the other hand, has been far too quiet. More than once Harry's had to rouse him after he'd faded into unconsciousness—with as much blood as he'd lost, Harry doesn't feel comfortable letting him sleep. He shifts his hold on the younger man, jostling him until he hears a pained groan as his injuries are disturbed.

"Come on, nearly there, Percival," Harry encourages him. "Keep it together."

 

It's clear the constant yoyoing of his consciousness I not something that's striking him very well. All the more reason for Harry to keep him awake and talking.

 

"You know," Harry begins airily, "you really ought to consider losing some weight. You're rather heavy for a man of your height and age."

 

He feels a puff of air against his neck that might be a laugh. After pulling him out of the Amazon over six months ago, Martin had made that same smart remark to him and Harry isn't about to let him forget it any time soon.

"Galahad...?" Martin mumbles into his shoulder.

"What is it?"

"Lancelot."

Harry's about to ask him what he's trying to say when he sees Thomas a few paces ahead of him on his knees, a hand clutched to his chest. A spike of anxiety flashes through him as he hurried to the older man's side as quickly as he can with the agent on his back.

"Thomas?!" Harry blurts, worry prompting him to neglect their code names.

Thomas waves him off, hurriedly pulling his hand away from his chest as though hoping Harry hadn't seen. But Harry _had_ seen. It's the fact that he doesn't understand what it means that scares him.

"Just the blasted laces on these boots," Thomas grouses as he hauls himself up.

Although Harry isn't in the least bit convinced, he finds himself unable to challenge Thomas on the matter. Or unwilling. He almost doesn't want to admit to himself what he'd just seen—that there could possibly be a chink in his mentor's armor. He's just tired, Harry tells himself. He just hasn't had enough time to rest since Bolivia. He just needs rest. Thomas will be fine.

"Of course," Harry says numbly as they begin to move once more. 

The rest of the journey to the plane is made in silence and Harry finds that with the sudden swirling thoughts of doubt in his head, it goes much quicker than it had before. As they reach the plane, they clamber on board and Harry gratefully deposits his younger colleague on the nearby sofa.

"I'll see to him," Thomas tells him. "You just get us in the air."

Harry isn't about to argue and part of him hopes that by the time he's gotten them high enough to engage the autopilot, Thomas may have recovered from his brief... whatever it was. Perhaps it's selfish of him to want to emerge from the cockpit and find he'd imagined the whole thing. Thomas is as human as any man Harry has ever met and yet not so. Much in the same way children fail to consider the mortality of their parents, Harry had never truly given much thought to Thomas dying apart from the far away truth that all men must one day die. Thomas had aged and Harry had only vaguely acknowledged that fact until now.

Kingsman without Thomas isn't something he'd ever truly given any thought to. Even now as he does, it fills him with a sense of anxiety and unease. He quickly directs himself away from his current train of thought—Thomas is merely in need of rest. There's no need to be so dramatic as to give thought to him dying. 

Once he's stabilized the aircraft and has them headed home, Harry moves to join Thomas and Martin in the cabin. Neither party looks as lively as Harry would like, though Thomas is at the very least fully conscious. He's tapping Martin on the cheek as Harry approaches, trying to keep him awake until they can deliver him to Lucy, but judging by the way dark eyes roll in their sockets until he eventually pins them on Thomas that will be a feat easier said than done.

"Let's get that head seen to," Thomas remarks, gesturing towards Harry.

Harry's hand flies to his forehead. Blinking blood from his eyes and wiping it from his brow had become an afterthought by this point, so much so that he'd forgotten the gash was even there amid all the thoughts tumbling around inside his head. Thomas looks to him expectantly, gesturing to the chair across from him.

"It's fine. I can see to it myself," Harry declares.

" _Sit_ ," Thomas says in a firm tone that will brook no argument as he gestures once more to the chair.

Harry does so, feeling like a little boy who'd skinned his knee on the playground and was now being lectured by mummy. He says nothing as Thomas quietly rifles through the first aid kid, pulling out what he needs and setting it aside. Once he's done this, he moves across the aisle to occupy the seat beside Harry and gets to work.

Holding him by the chin, Thomas gives him no warning that the antiseptic will sting or that his swipes with the gauze pad in his effort to clean the wound may hurt. Not that Harry needs him to. It just feels... oddly quiet. As much as Harry wants to break that silence, he finds himself unwilling to be the first to speak. Perhaps he's just waiting for Thomas to say something, anything, which might return them to the way things were, the way things have always been. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he's waiting for Thomas to say something to banish the image of him on his knees, clutching at his chest from Harry's mind.

"You'll need stitches," Thomas says offhandedly.

"Oh," Harry answers dumbly. "Alright."

"We'll wrap this up for now until we can get Morgana to stitch you both back up," Thomas goes on to say. "Here, hold this in place."

He directs Harry's hand to the square piece of gauze pressed over the wound and Harry dutifully keeps it there. As Thomas winds the bandages around his head, he finds his mind drifting, lost amid what-if's bouncing through his thoughts like tumbleweed. He tells himself that he has no need to worry, that if something were truly wrong, Thomas would tell him. But he finds himself wondering... _would_ he? If it were some detail crucial to an assignment, he has no doubt that Thomas would. Personal matters are another story, however. Thomas remains as tight-lipped on those as Harry himself is in that regard.

If there were something wrong with him, something well and truly wrong, would he let Harry know? Would he respect Harry enough to do that? These are questions that Harry's never had to ask himself and his lack of answers only makes them all the more worrisome.

"Perhaps you ought to be checked for a concussion," Thomas declares.

"What? No, I don't think so," Harry answers as they finish wrapping his head.

"Then perhaps there's another reason you've been giving the wall a thousand meter stare and ignoring everything I've said to you," Thomas says, settling back into his seat and offering Harry an appraising look. "You know Morgana will check you all the same. Better to be upfront with any symptoms beforehand."

"You were... Oh. I hadn't realized you were speaking," Harry admits, reaching up to touch the clean white bandages now wrapped around his forehead. "No, it's nothing like that, I was just... deep in thought. What with Percival and this recovery mission and such. I apologize."

"Mm-hmm," Thomas hums in recognition, not sounding entirely convinced to Harry. "Well, that's understandable. It's unusual, I'll give you that."

"Then you think so as well," Harry says.

Thomas rubs his chin thoughtfully. "I'd say it was simply due to the fact that Arthur doesn't want to see his prize pony lost..."

Harry glances quickly at Martin, wondering if he's listening. His eyes are closed once more and Harry's fairly certain that even if he can hear them, he's not truly listening. 

"...but he cuts ties as he needs to; even with his favorites," Thomas says with a snort. "My next guess would be that he simply hopes this little venture makes us all go away."

"I'd wondered about that," Harry says with a nod of agreement. "I hate to sound paranoid but it seemed the most likely reason."

"Well, as they say: is it truly paranoia if they are, in fact, out to get you?" Thomas queries with a quirked eyebrow.

Harry huffs a soft laugh at that. As lightly as they put it, you'd think they were well and truly joking. But the fact remained that what was usually the biggest threat to them came from within their own organization. Any sane man would have left long before now, but Harry knows it's too late for that. They're men of a certain breed; the kind that won't be able to do anything other than this, the kind that can't be anything other than a Kingsman now that they are.

"It's just that usually he's not so blatant about it," Harry says, rising from his seat to rouse Martin once more. He crouches until he's level with the sofa and taps the younger man firmly on the cheek. "Come on, Percy, eyes open."

It's getting harder and harder to wake him, Harry notes, and they've still a ways to go before they're home. It's worrisome but so long as they can keep him conscious in even brief doses then he should be fine. Harry tries again, his hand hitting a bit firmer this time.

"Percival," he says, louder now. He pauses with a frown, giving the dark haired man a scrutinizing look. Had he been this clammy before? This pale? He shakes him for good measure. "Percival... _Martin_."

Feeling anxiety creeping up the back of his neck at the continued lack of response, he presses his fingers to Percival's neck. His anxiety grows when he's hard-pressed to feel anything at all. Shifting his position, he rests his head against the other Knight's chest and listens carefully. The racing heartbeat and quick, shallow breaths he hears do nothing to put him at ease, and rising to his feet, he quickly checks on the wounds they'd treated earlier. Rolling Martin towards him reveals a large patch of blood soaked into the cushions; the clotting agent hadn't held.

" _Shit_ ," Harry hisses, drawing Thomas's attention. He fumbles for his earpiece and quickly keys in. "Morgana! We need your help; Percival's not responding. The clotting agent didn't take, he's bleeding again."

Thomas is at his side in an instant as Lucy quickly jumps in, taking in what she can and counting on Harry to rattle off any symptoms she can't see.

 _"Lancelot, get the med kit from the rear of the plane and get ready to pack the wound,"_ Lucy instructs him.

"I'll grab a blood pack while I'm back there," Thomas says gruffly, doing as he's told. "What's his type, Mags?"

There's a beat of silence before she answers. _"There's nothing for you to grab. He's O negative, we haven't been able to build enough of a supply to afford packing it in the transport coolers..."_

"Fuck. _Fuck_ ," Harry growls, pushing down on the towel he'd grabbed from the overhead and stuffed against Martin's side. "Then what are our options?"

_"The best we can do now is pack the wound then start a saline drip and hope that holds—"_

"What about a direct transfusion?" Thomas butts in.

"He's O negative, Lancelot," Harry says impatiently. "He can only receive from his own blood type."

"I'm aware," Thomas informs him dryly. "I say that because _I'm_ O negative."

For a moment there's silence from everyone. Harry has a feeling Lucy is thinking much the same as he is; namely that this sounds like a bad idea.

"Lucy, is it going to keep him until we can get him to you?" Thomas asks, his voice pitched at an unusually gentle timbre.

 _"I believe it would, yes,"_ Lucy answers, her tone matching his.

Thomas nods decisively, rolling up his sleeve. "Galahad, go and fetch one of the transfusion field kits."

Harry knows what he's just heard, knows this is the only way to keep Martin alive... but he hesitates. Time is of the essence but he finds himself frozen in place, as though he's been asked to make an impossible choice.

" _Now_ , Galahad!" Thomas barks.

It's enough to make Harry jump to his feet, though he feels as though he's operating on autopilot, his thoughts racing. He feels like some third party to his body's actions as he loads his arms with supplies and returns to the cabin. His fingers feel numb as he helps Thomas pack and redress the wounds to Martin's side. It's only as he's placing the IV line that he realizes he's shaking. He chastises himself under his breath, pushing himself to get it together.

There's nothing wrong.

Everyone will be fine.

* * *

"Harry?" 

Hearing his name, Harry blinks with a start and realizes he's been standing in the middle of the hallway for... he doesn't know how long. They'd arrived back at Central and Lucy and her team had quickly whisked Martin away and into surgery. Thomas had received a few brief words from Lucy before heading towards his office. Harry had watched him go, staring down the hall long after Thomas had turned the corner.

"Are you alright?" Merlin asks, brow drawn up at the center in concern.

"I'm... Yes," Harry says, nodding. "Yes. I'm alright. Just a bit tired."

"You're sure?" Merlin presses.

"I am. Really, Merlin," Harry says, mustering a small smile to banish his doubt.

Merlin still doesn't seem convinced. But thankfully he has the ability to read a situation and know when it's better to let something go, because he drops the matter right then and there.

"Why don't you let me fix you some tea?" Merlin says, his hand on Harry's back as he tries to guide him down the hall.

"I have a report to write," Harry says, putting forth a weak protest.

"I dare say you can write and drink at the same time," Merlin says, a grin slipping onto his face.

Harry isn't smiling.

Merlin senses that his jibe had fallen flat and studies Harry with open concern. Harry finds himself walking, his feet seeming to move of their own accord as they bring him to the only place he wants to be at that moment. Merlin trails just a step behind him and to his left, silent for a time but not intending to remain so for long.

"Harry, talk to me," he coaxes. "What is it?"

"Nothing, I just..." Harry starts, trailing off. "Lancelot fell. Or I believe he fell. While we were making our way back to the plane, I was distracted with keeping Percival awake and I missed it. When I looked up he was on his knees with a hand to his chest."

Merlin's brow draws down in a heavy frown. "Did he say anything?"

"He claimed it was the laces on his boots," Harry sighs. "But then when we were having difficulty controlling Percival's bleeding and he suggested a direct transfusion... He just didn't seem well, Merlin."

"It could just be exhaustion," Merlin says with a hopeful lilt to his voice. "He was just in Bolivia for six months."

Harry shakes his head, staring down at his boots. "Something still feels wrong."

"Well, then let's go and speak to him," Merlin suggests. "See if we can't clear this all up."

Harry doesn't answer. He's too preoccupied with the question in his mind, the one he's certain he knows the answer to and is afraid to ask. But he just can't help himself. No matter how much he thinks he knows, part of him still wishes to be consoled, to be reassured with falsities.

"Merlin, if something were wrong—truly wrong—with him, he would tell me, wouldn't he?" he asks.

Merlin's mouth works as though he wishes he could give Harry the reassurance he craves.

"I don't know," Merlin admits quietly.

It's as much as Harry expected to hear but knowing that doesn't do much to take the sting out of it. He finds the past twenty-four hours have had him reevaluating things he'd never questioned in the past fifteen years. Even still, there's a part of him stamping down on these thoughts, doing its best to put them far, far out of his mind. 

_Coward._

The word rises unbidden to his mind, echoing in his father's voice. Harry Hart is no coward. Choosing to be a lepidopterist over a soldier was cowardice, so he chose to be a soldier. He proved them wrong. He's been proving them wrong ever since and he's not about to stop now.

And yet.

Instead he just keeps walking, knowing he's about to face something he doesn't truly wish to face. If Thomas denies there is anything wrong, then Harry knows his relationship with Thomas isn't what he assumed he was. If Thomas tells him there is something wrong, then it would shatter that untouchable image of him that Harry had built up in his mind. He's not sure which is worse.

Harry doesn't realize anything is amiss until Merlin grabs his arm. Tight. Too tight. Harry's jerked back to attentiveness as he turns to ask him why he'd done so. He takes one look at Merlin's stricken expression and gets that feeling again in the pit of his stomach that something is deeply, terribly wrong. He follows the Scotsman's gaze down the hall to an open doorway. 

There's someone on the floor of Thomas's office, only their legs visible from the hallway. It takes his brain a moment to make the connection but he finds himself running even before that happens. 

As he reaches his mentor, he drops to his knees but finds himself unsure what to do first. His hands hover anxiously; does he check for a pulse? Look for an injury? Call for help? Merlin seems to have more of his wits about him, as he yanks Thomas's office phone off the receiver and is punching buttons as though they've personally wronged him. He's shouting, Harry thinks. Harry thinks he might be shouting, too. But all he can hear is the sharp whine of white noise stuffed in his ears like cotton.

It feels like a mere moment later that Merlin's hands frame his face, his hazel eyes boring into Harry's, demanding his attention. He's being spoken to but he can't hear a word of it. Just sounds, muffled and distant, drowned out by that white noise. His fingers tingle with pins and needles like his hands have fallen asleep and he realizes he's been gasping for air. It still feels as though he isn't getting any. 

There's a syringe in Merlin's hand and maybe he's explaining what that's for but Harry finds he can't be bothered to try and hear him. Typically he'd listen to Merlin whether he was explaining concepts of thermodynamics or reading from the phone book, but right then and there the only thing Harry can think to care about is Thomas.

Only he's become very tired just then. He's dizzy, too. Why is his body so heavy all of a sudden? Before he realizes, his face is pressed to the wool of Merlin's jumper and his eyes are sliding shut very much without his permission. He tries to protest, to argue that he needs to go help Thomas, but it seems his body no longer wishes to cooperate with him. Despite his struggling, he gets nowhere, and as his body grows loose and pliant he has no choice but to give in to the support his other half provides. Merlin's arms are strong around him, holding him up, holding him close, and he knows they shouldn't be like this out in the open, but as the seconds tick by he feels himself slipping further and further away from what he should be doing until all he feels is warm and safe and none of it matters very much at all anymore.

* * *

Merlin turns in his seat as he hears Harry beginning to stir. After sedating him, he'd brought him back to the quiet of the Control room, made up the pullout sofa and put him to bed. That had been nearly half a day ago. Lucy had come by in that time to check on him—after dealing with both Martin and Thomas, he could see the exhaustion in her eyes as plain as day. But she'd been no less diligent in her duties and had checked Harry over thoroughly. Apart from stitching the wound to his forehead, he'd needed no real medical attention and she'd simply advised Merlin to let him sleep, keep an eye on him and to call her if anything appeared out of the ordinary.

Which is precisely what Merlin has done. Only now that he's coming 'round, Merlin shifts out of his role of passive observation and into action. He rises from his seat and retreats to the small kitchenette in the adjacent room, placing the kettle on the stove and retrieving the sandwiches he'd prepared earlier from the refrigerator. By the time he returns with a tray of food and tea, Harry is just beginning to blearily blink himself awake.

"What happened?" Harry asks, his words slurred.

"You just needed some rest," Merlin says, setting the tray on the coffee table. He holds a steaming mug out to his partner. "Drink this."

Harry takes the mug without protest, if only because he seems to be too confused to do anything else. Merlin knows he hasn't completely come to his senses yet; if he had, he'd be tearing the place to the ground. Merlin sits on the edge of the bed, sipping quietly from his mug and watching as Harry merely sits with his own held between his hands. 

He can see the exact moment everything comes back to him.

Harry's brown eyes go wide with apparent realization and his tea is quickly forgotten. The mug goes end over end—and later Merlin will _not_ be happy with the tea soaked into his mattress—as Harry makes as though to jump out of the tangle of blankets. Merlin is quicker, however, and having already placed his mug aside, he grabs hold of Harry's wrists in a bid to still him. Of course, given who he's dealing with, that's no easy task. The other man fights him every step of the way and it's only due to his recent sedation that Merlin's able to get him pinned on his belly.

"Merlin, get off of me. I have to go see Thomas," Harry pants.

"Just stop moving and _listen_ to—"

"Merlin get the _fuck_ off of me!"

He bucks like a raging bronco, full of nervous energy, and Merlin's worried he may actually not be capable of keeping Harry where he is. It's just that he needs to listen, to hear what Lucy had said. It's not going to do any good for him to go rampaging across the estate.

"I said _stop_!" he snaps. "If you'll stop behaving like a bloody animal for _two minutes_ , I'll tell you about Thomas. Now, _enough_!"

Thankfully, Harry has enough sense to heed his words. Merlin isn't angry, though he's sure he sounds it. He's afraid. Because he's never seen Harry quite like this and the last thing he wants is to appear as helpless as he feels. Harry needs him now, he can't afford to be anything other than perfectly composed, anything other than patient and understanding.

Slowly, Merlin backs off of him in measures, prepared to pin him again if he shows further signs of distress. But even once Merlin has moved completely off of him, Harry doesn't stir. He remains where he'd been, his face pressed to the bed and his hands fisted in the sheets. With a soft sigh, Merlin rests a hand atop his head—he's wound too tightly. This whole assignment had been a bloody disaster, regardless of the actual mission's success.

"A mild cardiac episode. That's what Morgana said," Merlin says gently. "He has an irregular heartbeat—something she and Lancelot were already aware of—and the stress of his recent assignment coupled with this recovery mission and his impromptu blood donation triggered a mild cardiac episode. But he's fine, Harry. He'll _be_ fine. Once he's rested and recovered sufficiently, she'll perform surgery to correct the heart defect and he'll be fine. She's made it clear she has it all well under control and the procedure should be fairly routine. Alright?"

Harry remains silent for a long stretch before mumbling, "Can I see him?"

"Not just yet," Merlin answers, petting his head fondly. "He needs to rest without any disturbances. But when he's able to receive visitors, Mags has said you'll be the first to know."

There's a soft, unhappy, but nevertheless assenting hum in response to this. Merlin hardly expected Harry to be _happy_ but hearing this does seem to have calmed him down somewhat.

"...and Percival?"

Though Harry can't see it, Merlin smiles gently down at him. Even as panic stricken as he'd been about Thomas, Harry hadn't forgotten.

"Recovering. Mags dug three slugs and some shrapnel out of him, performed an emergency liver resection... but he's stable now," Merlin recounts to him. "As she explained it to me, if not for Lancelot's intervention, he would no longer be with us."

"So it was absolutely necessary," Harry says, as though asking for reassurance.

"Yes," Merlin responds, nodding despite the fact that Harry can't see it. "It was."

Harry falls quiet again and Merlin can't rightly say whether the answer had appeased him or not. This quiet, subdued behavior is so unlike him, Merlin hardly knows what to think. But at the very least he knows what to do.

"I'll get you a fresh cup of tea," he declares, rising with Harry's overturned mug in his hand. He points at the plate on the side table. "You're going to eat at least one of those sandwiches, then we're getting you home for a shower and a proper bed."

When Harry doesn't argue, Merlin finds himself praying Thomas is well enough to receive visitors sooner rather than later.

* * *

It's plain to see that Harry is agitated by the fact that he's still barred entry from Thomas's room in the infirmary, but at the very least he tries not to let it color his mood as he and Merlin stop in to check on Martin. Frankly, they're both a little curious as to what they'll actually find after Lucy had warned them that Martin seemed to be experiencing some... adverse reactions to the pain medication and anesthesia. Given how stern her lecture had been about not getting him riled up, Merlin can't even imagine what they might possibly be in for.

"What're _you_ doing here?"

The question had been groggily posed as their entrance had woken their youngest Knight and Merlin fights to keep a laugh smothered behind his fist. Harry's eyebrows have shot up above his spectacles at the annoyed lilt to the question as well as the way Martin pins his bleary gaze on Galahad as though the man had personally wronged him.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware there was a guest list," Harry drawls.

Martin squints in confusion as he lifts his head and looks about him before unceremoniously dropping back onto the pillows. "...this isn't my room."

Ah. Now Merlin's beginning to see what those 'adverse reactions' might just be. He clears his throat, chasing away a laugh threatening to bubble up. "How are you feeling, Martin?"

"...what the hell's all this... tubes and..." Martin mumbles, seemingly not having heard the question.

Watching as he makes a move to yank out his IV lines sends a jolt of anxiety through Merlin's body and he hurriedly reaches to still the younger man's hands. Lucy really hadn't been joking when she said he'd been difficult to manage.

"No! No, no, we'll just leave those where they are, shall we?" Merlin coaxes.

Eventually Martin settles, though he still regards them both with a perplexed stare, as though he really isn't quite sure why any of them are there. It's when he shifts in bed and attempts to sit up that he realizes. Merlin hears a sharp inhale as Martin's hand flies to his right side, where Lucy had stitched him up.

"Wha's this?" he mumbles, face scrunching in pain as he attempts to examine the gauze over his side. "Did I... what'd I do wrong?"

"I wouldn't say wrong, exactly," Harry says, sitting himself down in one of the nearby chairs and crossing his leg at the knee. "You did freeze while on assignment, but you've yet to give your reasoning for that. We've all been rather curious."

"That musta really made my father mad," Martin slurs, still preoccupied with the bandages over his side. 

As Merlin looks to his partner with a curious frown, he finds Harry appears to be every bit as lost as he is. Although Merlin had figured Martin wouldn't be making much sense, what he's said has at least been decipherable thus far. But the drugs must be muddling his thoughts even more than they'd thought—as far as Merlin's aware, Martin hasn't had any contact with his family since joining Kingsman, yet he speaks of his father as though the man had just been here.

"Why do you think your father has anything to do with this?" Harry asks slowly, now watching their colleague with the intense focus he was known for.

"Because if you're not perfect... you're... you get punished," Martin says with a snort, as though in disbelief that he has to explain this to them. "And you said I didn't... that I wasn't perfect."

Listening to Martin ramble on, Merlin is struck by a sudden realization. Of course, he can't know for sure unless he asks, but the question sticks in his craw and refuses to budge. Harry doesn't seem to have the same reservations.

"Then you believe that these injuries were punishment," Harry surmises. "And that your father was responsible for enacting that punishment. Is that right?"

To the surprise of both of them, Martin laughs. He _giggles_ as though Harry had just told him a particularly good joke. "Well... Well who else would do it? _God_ , Harry... Sometimes you're just so... fucking _thick_..."

All in all, Martin seems greatly amused by Harry's apparent ignorance, but his reply had left a heavy weight in the pit of Merlin's stomach. Having spent the entirety of his youth in an orphanage, Merlin is no stranger to the word 'abuse.' His personal experience was limited to the occasional wrath of the nuns who ran the institution but there were others at the orphanage who weren't so lucky. Merlin hadn't known anything other than the orphanage, but some children came to them from broken families and unhappy homes. They told him, sometimes, the ones who got close to him. In the dark of night, whispering for fear of being discovered awake past their curfew, he heard of alcoholic mothers and wrathful fathers, how they never left marks where someone would see and how one learned to lie convincingly when they did. 

By now he knows the signs, knows the damage it causes, the way it can warp someone's perception of right and wrong. He knows all of these things and more and as he looks back over the last four years, he can see them. Nothing overt, of course. Little instances here and there, negligible in and of themselves. Abuse doesn't completely explain Martin's behavior or personality and it's not as though he'd ever breathed a word of any such treatment. But Merlin's kicking himself for not piecing the puzzle together before now. It's just that Martin's closed tighter than an oyster and even the pearls they've managed to pry loose have been paltry little things at best.

But... no, that's not the only reason. It hadn't truly occurred to Merlin to even consider it a possibility. It's not as though these things are determined by socioeconomic status but the idea that these people could have anything in common with him is something he knows he still struggles to accept. These men from wealthy, powerful families with their top tier educations and their expensive tastes, taking for granted the things that so many others would never have. He's worked hard to lessen the chip on his shoulder over the years but it had still managed to blind him to something he was in a unique position to see.

It's not an excuse. It's Merlin's job to know his agents inside and out, to know their strengths and their weaknesses, their faults, the cracks in their armor. He thought he was beginning to understand Martin. Now he feels as though he doesn't know him at all. Harry, though... Merlin wonders if he sees the same things. If perhaps he'd seen further than Merlin had.

Judging by the thunderous frown on Galahad's face, that isn't the case.

"Martin, those wounds weren't caused by your father," Harry says firmly.

"...they weren't?" Martin says questioningly. "But he had to—I was... "

"You don't recall being in Somalia?" Merlin queries.

"I'm... not sure..." Martin admits, head falling back against the pillows restlessly. "But I can... I can do it better next time. I'll do it better. I'll... I can get it right."

"There's no 'next time,'" Merlin says, shaking his head as he sits at the foot of the bed. "You completed your mission. There's no need to go back; it was difficult enough for Galahad and Lancelot to retrieve you this time."

"Lancelot was there?" Martin mumbles, almost to himself. A moment later his eyes light up in recognition. "Oh, he _fell_..."

"Yes," Harry says slowly, hands clasped tightly between his knees. "He's in a room down the hall from yours. He, ah... had a mild cardiac episode."

"...because he fell?" Martin asks, the picture of bleary-eyed confusion.

"No, not as such. It seems he had a pre-existing heart condition he'd never thought to mention to any of us," Harry explains. Merlin can hear the bitterness in his words; the idea that Thomas would keep something like this from him is still a difficult pill for him to swallow. "With the stress of his mission to Bolivia coupled with being dispatched to recover you and his choice to perform a direct blood transfusion between you and himself... well, it exarcerbated his condition."

"Why'd he need to... why'd he give me his blood if..." Martin mumbles, grinding the heel of his palm against his forehead with a deep frown.

"You didn't exactly have a great deal of your own at the time," Harry answers him, "being that you'd donated a significant amount to the sofa."

"Oh. Well that was... that was stupid of him."

Merlin tenses, cursing Martin's ability to say the worst thing at the worst time. Beside him he can sense Harry's temper rising and with the way his eyes light up with furious indignation, Merlin's concerned that his partner may forget that the one it's aimed at is already in a hospital bed. Just as he's thinking he may have to intervene, the angry spark in Harry's eyes suddenly dies out, washed away by a sort of exhausted pity.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

Martin mutters the word over and over under his breath, the heel of his palm rhythmically hitting his forehead as he does. It takes Merlin a moment to realize he's no longer referring to Thomas. Again and again the word slips out in a berating echo, his palm striking with a little more force each time. If no one else will punish him, Martin seems to be perfectly willing to handle the task himself. He would hate to be pitied—stubborn and prideful as he is, Merlin's sure of it—but Merlin can't help but do so regardless.

With soft sigh the wizard leans over, reaching until he can catch the young Knight by the wrist and tug his hand away. There's a passive level of resistance as Martin attempts to pull his hand back, but Merlin isn't letting go, his grip only tightening in response.

"It's alright, Martin," he says soothingly.

"...'s'not..." Martin insists.

"It is," Harry says with a sigh. "It will be. You can relax."

"Can't I just give it back?" Martin mumbles. "I don't... He shouldn't've given it to me... Why'd he...?"

Though it's something which happens infrequently, Merlin is left feeling out of his depth. Getting Martin to open up and communicate with them more freely has been a goal of his since he and Harry had first thought to take him under their wing. But instead of instilling a sense of satisfaction in him, this sort of baldfaced honesty leaves him only feeling sick to his stomach. It's not how he wished for it to come about. It's not right. It's something that should be volunteered out of trust, not chemically produced. As evidenced by today, Merlin knows they've still a long way to go before they see that happen.

"Galahad?"

Merlin is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Lucy's voice at the doorway. The expression on her face is difficult to read, but at the very least, Merlin's sure she's exhausted. Seeing to both Thomas and Martin has undoubtedly been a full-time workload and knowing her as well as he does, he's sure that Lucy has handled the bulk of it herself. Despite her ample staff, she's not going to be satisfied with anyone but her caring for them.

"Lancelot is awake and stable," Lucy informs them. "You may have a _short_ visit, if you would care to."

The words have barely left her lips before Harry's up and out of his seat like a fired rocket, pausing just long enough to offer a word of thanks and a quick peck on the cheek as he passes Lucy in the doorway. With a soft smile and a shake of her head, she steps into the room and allows the door to drift shut behind her.

"As I thought," Lucy sighs. She turns her attention to where Martin is making a vague attempt at disentangling himself once more from his IV line. "Now, let's get you settled again, shall we?"

Martin tells her on no uncertain terms exactly what he thinks about that, but Merlin has other things on his mind. He stands back by the door, watching as Lucy patiently fields the addled Percival's questions, steadily winding him down as she checks over bandages and vitals. It hadn't occurred to Merlin that they may have violated her directive that they not wind Martin up with their visit. Lucy had never had any children of her own, but watching her gently shush Martin now, you would never guess. She mothers all of them, of course, but with what's on Merlin's mind, it takes on a drastically different tone.

"Mags?" he pipes up, his voice much quieter than he intended.

It seems to catch her attention because she looks up from her work with concern etched in her features. "Yes?"

"When you've finished, I wonder if we might have a talk," Merlin says.

He knows his vague wording has her concerned, just as he knows she can't help but worry after them the way she does. All the same, she doesn't press him then and there to explain. Perhaps sensing his reluctance, she merely nods her head and motions behind him towards the door. "Put the kettle on in my office and I'll join you in a moment."

Nodding quietly, Merlin retreats through the door, the sound of Lucy's quiet humming following him down the hall.

* * *

Despite having been practically biting at the bit to get to Thomas, Harry finds himself standing outside the man's door with his mind racing and his hands refusing to cooperate. Whenever he makes to reach for the door handle, he can't seem to force his fingers to close around it and winds up drawing his hand hand back to wipe his clammy palms against his trouser legs. It's a simple action, opening a door. He's been doing it ever since he was a toddler and scared his poor mother half to death when he found his way out into the gardens unattended. Now you would think opening a door to be some great, Sisyphean task as he reaches time and again for the handle only to find himself incapable of proceeding any further.

If you were to ask him, he would claim he hadn't the slightest as to why the task is proving so challenging. He'd be lying, of course. When it comes right down to it, as desperate as he is to see Thomas with his own two eyes, he's afraid of what he'll see. The image of his mentor pale and still on the floor of his office continues to plague his thoughts. He's seen Thomas ill and injured in the past, but not one of those instances can hold a candle to what faces him now. Regardless of everyone's reassurances, Harry knows how serious the matter is.

Cursing his own cowardice, Harry pushes forward before he has another moment to linger in his own thoughts and throws the door open.

"I wondered when you'd stop dallying out in the hall."

Though his voice is thin and weary, it's full of all the wry humor that Thomas is known for. Sitting in his hospital bed, the imposing Lancelot appears smaller than Harry has ever seen him, with deep circles beneath his eyes and a gauntness to his face that makes Harry's gut cramp uncomfortably.

"Thomas," Harry greets him, his head dipping in a nod. "You look..."

"Like shit," Thomas finishes for him. "Don't try to butter me up, you know how I hate it."

The older man beckons him inward, motioning to the open seat beside the bed. Like a well trained dog, Harry closes the door quietly behind him and crosses the length of the room in long-legged strides before he takes the seat indicated. A thousand thoughts cross his mind and he finds himself having a difficult time catching so much as one as they fly about him like so many birds.

"It's a rare moment indeed where Harry Hart is lost for words," Thomas quips. "It's usually a struggle to get you to shut that great gob of yours."

He's trying to goad Harry into one of their playful arguments, a routine form of teasing that makes up a great deal of their interaction. It's an attempt to reassure him by bringing him back to something familiar. But it isn't working. If anything, all it does is prod at Harry's temper until the little lump of coal at his center begins to glow with heat.

"Stop it," Harry says lowly.

Thomas sighs heavily, apparently not wanting to have this conversation. "Harry—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asks, cutting Thomas off before he can begin to form some kind of excuse. "Mags says you have a heart condition; a defect. Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing to tell," Thomas says plainly.

Harry bristles at the words. "Nothing to tell? Thomas, I found you face down on your office floor. Don't tell me there wasn't anything to tell. You _lied_ to me."

"Remember who it is you're talking to," Thomas warns him, eyes flashing.

"That's precisely why I'm angry!" Harry says, frustration coating his words. "Out of anyone I would have thought that I at least warranted... _something_."

"Harry," Thomas sighs, leaning back against his pillows, "there was nothing to tell you. I'd already discussed it with Mags and for the majority of the time I was aware of it, the condition was manageable and non-threatening. We agreed as soon as I was back from Bolivia, she would correct it with surgery. It just happened that things didn't go as we'd planned."

The answer doesn't satisfy him. Reasonable as it is, Harry can't shuck the angry fire from his guts with so simple an explanation. "When you tripped as we were leaving Mogadishu with Percival; you lied."

"It was hardly an opportune time to explain," Thomas says with some agitation. "You'd have worked yourself into a lather and we couldn't afford for you to have anything but a clear head at the time."

"Would you have ever told me?" Harry asks waspishly. "If everything had gone according to plan and you'd arrived back from Bolivia without incident, would you even have had the decency to tell me?"

Thomas hesitates. He sighs and scrubs a hand across his face, but doesn't answer Harry's question. Harry decides that's answer enough. He sees red as he rises, turning his chair end over end with one mighty shove and swiftly making his exit, slamming the door so hard behind him that it rattles on its hinges. He stalks through the halls like a wounded tiger, all bunched muscle and unvented anger.

The nagging voice at the back of his head—the one that sounds suspiciously like Merlin—tells him he shouldn't have lost his temper. He'd been eating himself up with anxiety over Thomas's health and the moment he'd seen him, he'd blown a gasket and stormed out.

Thomas wasn't going to tell him.

That's what he'd learned. That Thomas didn't think enough of him to impart such an important piece of information. At the end of the day, Thomas didn't trust Harry the way Harry trusted him. Harry didn't hold an important enough position in Thomas's life to be considered worth telling. 

For a long few minutes, Harry stands in the middle of the empty corridor with his hands balled into fists at his sides, not even remembering having walked this far. He's not even sure where he thought he was going. To Merlin, most likely. That's assuming he'd even left the infirmary. He just needs something... normal. Something to make him feel as though the world isn't upside down at the moment.

"Galahad?"

The voice had come from behind him and he quickly turns to meet its owner: Emerson Wesley Wallace, their Tristan. The Irishman wears a look of cautious concern as he approaches, most likely put off by the possibility of incurring Harry's thunderous temper. Harry sighs, trying to lose some of the agitation taking up residence in his body but finding that easier said than done.

"Tristan," Harry answers with a nod of his head. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I think I ought to be the one asking you that," Wes answers, folding his arms across his chest. "Who's gone and stepped on your tail?"

Harry sighs, reaching up to rub at tired eyes. "No one. It's nothing. Just... personal issues."

"Thomas, then," Wes guesses.

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but finding he doesn't have the words, promptly snaps it shut. Of course Wes must be worried as well. Sometimes Harry forgets he's not the only one Thomas had mentored. Even if their relationship with him is different, Thomas had undoubtedly been a large influence in both of their young lives.

"Did he tell you?" Harry asks instead.

"About his heart condition?" Wes asks. At Harry's nod, he shakes his head. "No. I hadn't heard a word about it until today. Went to see Mags looking for an update and, well... I suppose I found out about a moment before you did."

Harry nods silently. He's not sure if he feels better or worse knowing that Wes had been as in the dark as he had. But before he can contemplate the matter any further, Wes comes up alongside him, bumping shoulders good naturedly.

"Have a drink with me," he says.

"I don't think I'll make for very good company," Harry admits.

"Well, the way I see it, you need a drink. I know I certainly need one. And if we're both going to be drinking, it seems silly to do it by ourselves, don't you think?" Wes proposes. "That way I can render my decision as to the quality of your company after I've had it."

Harry knows he won't be saying no; or rather Wes won't allow him to. If he's being honest with himself, being alone with alcohol is a venture that is not likely to end well. But Wes is the responsible sort—and more importantly, he understands precisely how Harry feels but isn't won't to press him on the matter. With a heavy sigh and a nod of his head, Harry agrees and Wes leads the way.

Glancing over his shoulder the way he'd come, Harry tells himself he'll visit again. Later, once he's had time to think and for his temper to cool, he'll try again. But for now he's quite content to follow his colleague and to let alcohol drown out any bothersome feelings that may come his way.

* * *

When Merlin had asked for a word, Lucy had a few guesses as to what it could be about. But finding him sitting in her office, his leg bouncing in agitation, greatly narrows down the list of possibilities. She pauses just long enough to pour then both tea before taking her seat and regarding the young tech wizard across the desk from her.

"What is it that's troubling you?" she asks.

Merlin's face screws up in an unhappy frown as he takes his teacup in his hands. The set is more suited to her—his broad palms and long, thin fingers nearly engulf the little cup he holds so gently.

"I wanted to speak with you about Percival—about Martin," Merlin answers, eyes staring into the steaming depths of his cup. "There were... things said which I feel should be addressed."

Lucy clucks her tongue as she plucks a biscuit off the plate. "I warned you he was having a bad reaction."

"No, I—yes, I mean, I understand that, just..." Merlin stumbles over his words before pausing to wet his lips. He reaches up to knead his fingers against his forehead as though to ward off an impending migraine. With a heavy sigh he finally meets Lucy's gaze. "Has he ever said anything to you about his relationship with his father?"

It's not as though she hadn't suspected this talk would happen eventually, but rather that she hoped she'd be more prepared for it. Six months ago before he'd left for Bolivia, Thomas had taken her aside for a word regarding the young Knight. She'd had her suspicions but his words had cemented what she essentially already knew. Not that she'd heard a word of it from Martin; he seemed perfectly content to dodge the subject at all costs.

"No, he hasn't," Lucy says, sipping her tea. She wants to be sure they're on the same page before she divulges anything. "I take it he said something during your visit?"

"In a way," Merlin hedges. His thumbs trace the rim of his cup distractedly as he seemingly takes time to carefully choose the words he'd like to use. "He seemed to think that his injuries had been inflicted by his father."

"Yes, he had made a handful of similar statements to me," Lucy informs him.

The muscles in Merlin's jaw twitch in agitation. It seems to her that he's struggling to get the words out. Not that she blames him. It's not an easy subject to discuss.

"Mags, I think he may have been abused," Merlin says quietly. He shakes his head. "Actually—No, I don't _think_ that, I'm quite sure of it."

Merlin doesn't know the things that she does, hasn't seen the things she has. Right now, it's just speculation for him. But for her, it's very real. She had never pushed Martin to talk to her. She'd never asked about the long, thin scars on his back or the small, circular scars on his arms, all faded with age. She hadn't asked about the old fractures, long since healed, that showed on his x-rays. She hadn't asked why he'd shoved her off of him when she'd thought to try to embrace him. Some things spoke for themselves. All she had ever done was remind him that she was there to talk to, should he ever need it. Although she's sure he's needed it on more than one occasion, he had yet to take her up on her offer.

"Lancelot and I are familiar with the Gainsborough family—Lancelot more so than myself," Lucy starts off, pouring another cup of tea for herself. "They're not the sort that I would have ever thought would have or want a child. Mortimer Gainsborough is renowned for being cold and ruthless in his law practice as well as in his personal dealings. That those qualities would translate to his child rearing... I can't say that I find it all that surprising. There are a number of items in Martin's medical file which allow me to be confident in confirming your suspicions, but he has been very resistant towards discussing it the few times I've attempted to broach the subject."

Merlin merely nods silently, his expression a portrait of misery. Lucy hadn't expected him to be happy about this particular bit of information, but the deeply _un_ happy look on his face suggests there's something else he hasn't said.

"...I missed it," Merlin says with a faraway look in his eyes. "I can't believe I missed it. It was always right there in front of me and I couldn't see it for what it was. Out of everyone, I should have been able to see it and I didn't. And... And I don't think I wanted to."

Ah. There it is.

"Merlin—"

"I didn't want to think that any of these people could possibly have anything in common with someone like me," Merlin says, quickly steamrolling her attempt to pacify him. "I'm supposed to know them better than they know themselves and I missed this. I could have been doing something for him and instead I let my own resentment blind me."

Lucy swears she's never met a man so hard on himself. Well, one could certainly make an argument for Thomas and Harry, but that's hardly the point at the moment. Merlin is the first to blame himself when something has gone wrong—which is only compounded by Arthur's heavy handed punishments. No matter how small the error or how negligible the mistake, if something's gone awry then Merlin will inevitably blame himself. It only stands to reason that he would in this instance especially, given that he and Harry had opted to act as mentors to the fledgling Percival.

She just wishes he could learn to be more forgiving of himself. In this case, it wasn't nearly so obvious as he seems to believe it was. There were signs, yes, but hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty. Of course he can see them when he's looking back. Seeing them in the moment for what they were would have been nearly impossible, regardless of any experience with the subject matter. Not all of Martin's behavior stems from abuse and the parts that do can easily be lost behind the rest of his peculiar personality. Merlin isn't a psychiatrist or a psychic and can't be expected to have the foresight of either.

"Callum," she says gently, setting her teacup down and giving him a long look. "You can't expect to know everything."

"I know," Merlin answers her, frustration clear in his tone. "But of all the things..."

"Exposure doesn't make you an expert," Lucy is quick to remind him. "Stop worrying about what you think you could have done and instead look toward what you're going to do. There's no sense in berating yourself for something you couldn't see when no one else could see it either. Instead, use it going forward. And keep in mind that it does no good to try to help someone that isn't willing to help themselves."

Regardless of what Merlin may or may not have missed, Martin remains rather firmly grounded in his convictions. Harry may have rattled his foundation in the past four years but it doesn't change the fact that Martin is still stubbornly set in his ways—and under Arthur's thumb. She isn't suggesting that Merlin abandon his attempts to help the younger man, but she doesn't want him getting his hopes up either. Martin likely doesn't believe he needs any sort of help—his solitary and prideful nature make her almost positive of that fact—and Merlin could very easily wear himself thin trying to move a stone that may not be able to be moved. 

No matter how slow he may be to trust, Merlin truly does want the best for others and tries his hardest to ensure they get it. It's simply not in his nature to look the other way. Still, she worries about him, about how much of himself he puts into that venture.

"I'm not claiming it will be easy," Merlin says after a moment. "But I think it's possible. We've started to make an impact, I'm sure of it. And you know, Harry... He really does look up to Harry I think. Harry's worked hard to cultivate a relationship with him and I think that work will ultimately pay off, even if it's years from now. I mean Martin could've left him..."

Lucy watches him swallow his words, Adam's apple bobbing as he struggles to spit them out. He doesn't have to. She knows. A little over six months ago had been a very close call for Harry; one which wouldn't have ended so happily if Martin hadn't made the seemingly spur of the moment decision to disobey orders. Reaching across her desk, she pats his hand—a silent reassurance that he needn't force himself.

"If that had happened four years ago, I believe he _would've_ left Harry," Merlin says instead. "But he didn't. And that's progress, to me. I really do believe there's a good person there, he's just... buried under the bad things someone else has done."

"I agree," Lucy replies. She gives his hand a brief squeeze, her gaze warm as she studies his face. "And I think if anyone's capable of helping him, it's you."

Merlin looks up with a crooked grin on his face. "You say that, but we'd _all_ be lost without our mum."

"Don't you forget it," Lucy says smartly, pinching his hand playfully. "Now, drink your tea. And I want to see you eat at least two of those biscuits."

"Yes, mum."

* * *

It's late by the time Lucy makes her way to Thomas's room again. The majority of their staff has gone home for the evening, including Arthur. It means Lucy can allow herself to do something she rarely does. Thomas appears to be asleep as she closes the door behind her and quietly latches the lock, but as she approaches the bed, he opens his eyes and turns his head towards her. Even here in the infirmary he can't drop his instinctual behavior of always being on alert for potential threats. Not that she can fault him for that. Sometimes the greatest threats come from within.

"When did you last sleep?" Thomas asks hoarsely.

"Don't you even think of trying to lecture me about proper rest," Lucy says with a hint of a smile on her face. "Now, budge up."

She can see Thomas fighting back a smile as he shifts to make enough room for her to kick off her shoes and press to his side. Hearing his soft, contented sigh as he wraps an arm around her and presses his face to the top of her head is nearly worth getting caught. Thankfully, without any cameras in the room and none of Chester King's dogs sniffing about, that isn't something they need worry about. 

"How are you feeling?" Lucy asks, her hand moving across the broad span of his chest.

"Tired," Thomas admits. "Better now."

"Mm," Lucy hums in agreement. "How was your visit with Harry?"

Thomas sighs again, though this time it's far from happy. "He took it poorly. I didn't suppose he would be pleased, but he stormed out as though he intended to tear the building down brick by brick. He's too hotheaded sometimes, that boy."

"We knew he would be upset," Lucy reminds him. "Give him time to cool off and he'll see the reason in it."

"I'm not certain that he will," Thomas says.

"No?" Lucy queries.

Thomas shakes his head. "I've seen enough of his temper tantrums. This was different."

Lucy says nothing as she reaches up and presses her hand to his face. Her thumb traces his cheek slowly as he breathes quietly into her hair. She knows he's more upset about this than he's letting on. Thomas Brampton was never one to show you his full hand; there were always going to be cards up his sleeve and kept to his chest. He'd softened over time, at least with her, but she knew when it was best to press an issue and when it was best to let it go. 

 

"Of course it was different," Lucy murmurs after a few wordless minutes. "You're not just any other agent to him, Thomas, and you're not merely a mentor. You know that. Regardless of the reason, this is going to feel like a betrayal to him, at least in the beginning."

 

"It wasn't a _betrayal_ , it was—"

 

"He's not going to see it in the same light as you do," Lucy says, cutting him off before he says anything further. "You can't force him to. This is something he needs to work through on his own and if you give him the time to do so, he'll understand, even if he doesn't necessarily agree."

 

Thomas makes a soft, dissatisfied noise but doesn't argue further. He's used to being able to take care of a situation promptly. He's used to being mobile and active and able-bodied. Being confined to an infirmary bed has left him both physically and mentally restless, the recent incident with Harry only having exacerbated that state. Typically, Thomas is one of her worst patients, but time has caught up with him, and time is something he can't outsmart, outtalk, or outrun. 

 

This recent series of events has worried her. She'd been worried enough by the heart defect as it was, but at the very least before now it had been something manageable. She'd had her plan in place, carefully laid out. And then Thomas had gone off to Bolivia for six months. After he had promised her he would submit himself for surgery the following week. She tries not to be angry, but it's a difficult emotion to wrangle at the best of times and now is hardly the best of times.

 

She should have declared him medically unfit for the recovery mission, whether she'd had a chance to see him or not. That had been her mistake; thinking she had time to wait for him to return to her for a post-mission evaluation, thinking he would tell her if he was truly incapable of going. All he'd had to do was say it. But she knows Thomas. Just as she knows he would sooner die than admit a weakness to Chester King.

 

But there's still time. He's here now, and although the circumstances are not ideal, he's resting and regaining his strength. She'll be able to perform the surgery even if it's off on her time table and he'll recover and all will be well again.

 

Lucy tells herself this despite the way worry continues to gnaw at the pit of her stomach.

 

"Merlin came to see me about Percival," she tells him, trying to shift the thoughts in her mind to other things. "He asked if I knew anything about his relationship with his father."

 

"Mm-hm," Thomas hums thoughtfully. "And what did you tell him?"

 

Lucy sighs. "I merely confirmed what he had already guessed. Of course, he blamed himself for not seeing it sooner."

 

"It was hardly what I would call glaringly obvious," Thomas remarks. "The boy is an odd duck no matter which way you look at it."

 

"An odd duck you thought to risk your life for," Lucy reminds him.

 

"'Odd' does not necessarily equate to 'bad,'" Thomas says. "And if I have done anything, it was only in an effort to make him look to his guiding hand with a little more scrutiny."

 

He's speaking of Chester, of course. Regardless of Harry and Merlin's intervention, Martin still looks to the man who had sponsored him for guidance. No doubt he felt a certain sense of empowerment from having cut ties with his parents, but he had yet to realize he'd merely left one ugly situation for another. Although Chester was hardly handling him in the same way his father had, there was no doubt the spymaster was a constant presence with young Percival, ever on his shoulder and whispering in his ear. Understanding that will inevitably be a difficult pill to swallow, but better for Martin in the long term.

 

"Those boys are all trouble," Thomas declares, interrupting her thoughts. "The lot of them."

 

"We weren't so different at their age," Lucy reminds him with a smile. "I remember you being quite the troublemaker."

 

Thomas snorts but doesn't disagree. It seems such a long time since they'd been that young.

 

"Have you thought at all about what I asked?" she asks suddenly.

 

"Lucy," he says haltingly. "You know I can't retire just yet."

 

"You mean you don't wish to," she corrects him.

 

"I can't," he reaffirms. "I still have a few more years yet in me."

 

"Do you?" Lucy wonders.

 

Thomas's hold on her tightens. "Two years. Give me two years and I promise I'll put in my retirement papers."

 

Two years. If she gives him that, then he can retire to his country home and she with him. Two years and something which has always been what-could-have-been can actually be. This thing which has existed between them for nearly as long as they've known one another won't have to be kept under lock and key. But it's not simply a matter of not wanting to wait—she truly wonders if he's capable of doing this job for that much longer.

 

This had been a close call and one which showed that Arthur wouldn't think of pulling his punches, no matter the situation. If anything, he seemed to move like a shark sensing blood in the water. Any sort of weakness is an opening and nothing would leave Thomas as exposed as this surgery. But she knows she could argue until she's blue in the face and she would still never be able to pry him from his title before he's ready. In the grand scheme of things, two years is not as long as he could have said and a fair amount of that will be eaten up by his recovery time. It's not ideal but neither is it as bad as it could have been.

 

"Two years," Lucy echoes. "I'll hold you to that."

 

She tips her head back, looking up to him. His fingers find her chin as he dips down and says against her lip, "I would expect nothing less."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it hasn't been mentioned in this fic, Lywinis and I cast [Kenneth Branagh as Tristan/Wes Wallace.](http://theshakespeareblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/kenneth-branagh-image-412x600.jpg)
> 
> You should definitely read [The Labors of Heracles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312/chapters/34434986) by Lywinis to follow this up.


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